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When the hurly-burly's done, When the battle's lost and won.
When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
‘Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?
Oh, this is treachery! Get out of here, good Fleance, run, run, run! Someday you can get revenge.—Oh, you bastard!
This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest
She should have died hereafter. There would have been a time for such a word.
The Queen my lord is dead
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