Go. And remember that thy fortunes stillAre watched by me, and they who do my willProsper in all their ways. Aye, thou shalt proveEre long, if I can care for those I love.Exit PARIS. She raises her voice.Back, back, ye twain! Are ye in love with death?Laertes’ son, thy sword into the sheath!Our golden Thracian gaspeth in his blood;The steeds are ours; the foe hath understoodAnd crowds against you. Haste ye! haste to fly,—Ere yet the lightning falleth, and ye die!