Car. More Murders? save the lady.
Balt. Rampant? let the Constable make a mittimus.
Med. Keepe 'em asunder.
Car. How is it royall sonne?
King. I feele no poyson yet; only mine eyes
Are putting out their lights: me thinks I feele
Deaths Icy fingers stroking downe my face;
And now I'me in a mortall cold sweat.
Queen. Deare my Lord.
King. Hence! call in my Physicians.
Med. Thy Physician, Tyrant, Dwels yonder: call on him or none.
King. Bloody Medina! stab'st thou, Brutus, too?
Daen. As hee is so are we all.