Fly, my lord, fly.

Fly, fly, my lord; there is no tarrying here.

Now is that noble vessel full of grief,
That it runs over even at his eyes.

What ill request did Brutus make to thee?

O Dardanius!

I'll rather kill myself.

What, I, my lord? No, not for all the world.

Statilius show'd the torch-light, but, my lord,
He came not back: he is or ta'en or slain.