What, you egg!
Stabbing him
Young fry of treachery!

He's a traitor.

Where is your husband?

Ay, my good lord: safe in a ditch he bides,
With twenty trenched gashes on his head;
The least a death to nature.

Most royal sir,
Fleance is 'scaped.

My lord, his throat is cut; that I did for him.

'Tis Banquo's then.

Well, let's away, and say how much is done.

Wast not the way?

Let it come down.

Stand to't.

His horses go about.

Then stand with us.
The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day:
Now spurs the lated traveller apace
To gain the timely inn; and near approaches
The subject of our watch.

But who did bid thee join with us?

Though our lives--

And I another
So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune,
That I would set my lie on any chance,
To mend it, or be rid on't.

We are men, my liege.

You made it known to us.

It was, so please your highness.