It is here, Hamlet: Hamlet, thou art slain; No medicine in the world can do thee good; In thee there is not half an hour of life; The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, Unbated and envenom’d: the foul practice Hath turn’d itself on me; lo, here I lie, Never to rise again: thy mother’s poison’d: I can no more:—the king, the king’s to blame.
There are no more uses of "treacherous" in the play.
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The road through Afghanistan’s Kabul gorge is even more treacherous than the Road of Death in Bolivia.
It’s a gorgeous beach, but the waves are treacherous in the water.