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O, treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly! Thou mayst revenge - O slave!
There's but one down; the son is fled.
Well, let's away, and say how much is done.
Thou art the best o'th'cut-throats, yet he's good that did the like for Fleance; if thou didst it, thou art the nonpareil
Avaunt and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; thou hast no speculation in those eyes which thou dost glare with
I pray you speak not; he grows worse and worse. Question enrages him. At once, good night. Stand not upon the order of your going, but go at once.
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