O, treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly! Thou mayst revenge—O slave!

Then comes my fit again: I had else been perfect; / Whole as the marble, founded as the rock, / As broad and general as the casing air: / But now I am cabin’d, cribb’d, confin’d, bound in / To saucy doubts and fears.

There the grown serpent lies; the worm that’s fled / Hath nature that in time will venom breed, / No teeth for th’ present.—

The gracious Duncan / Was pitied of Macbeth:—marry, he was dead:— / And the right valiant Banquo walk’d too late; / Whom, you may say, if’t please you, Fleance kill’d, / For Fleance fled.

We have lost best half of our affair.