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"O treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly! Thou may ’st revenge —O slave!"
Sit, worthy friends. My lord is often thus And hath been from his youth. Pray you, keep seat. The fit is momentary; upon a thought He will again be well. If much you note him, You shall offend him and extend his passion. Feed and regard him not.
Thou canst not say I did it. Never shake Thy gory locks at me.
"And that distilled by magic sleights Shall raise such artificial sprites As by the strength of their illusion Shall draw him on to his confusion."
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