You are, and do not know’t: The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood Is stopp’d; the very source of it is stopp’d.

Those of his chamber, as it seem’d, had done’t: Their hands and faces were all badged with blood; So were their daggers, which unwiped we found Upon their pillows: They stared, and were distracted; no man’s life Was to be trusted with them.

O, yet I do repent me of my fury, That I did kill them.