Thou art the best o’ the cut-throats: yet he’s good That did the like for Fleance: if thou didst it, Thou art the nonpareil.

Most royal sir, Fleance is ’scaped.

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, confined, bound in To saucy doubts and fears. But Banquo’s safe?

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