And I must be from thence! My wife kill’d too?

Be comforted: Let’s make us medicines of our great revenge, To cure this deadly grief.

He has no children. All my pretty ones? Did you say all? O hell-kite! All? What, all my pretty chickens and their dam At one fell swoop?

I shall do so; But I must also feel it as a man: I cannot but remember such things were, That were most precious to me. Did heaven look on, And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff, They were all struck for thee! naught that I am, Not for their own demerits, but for mine, Fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now!

Be this the whetstone of your sword: let grief Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.