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O shut the door, and when thou hast done so, Come weep with me, past hope, past cure, past help!
O, Juliet, I know thy grief; It strains me past the compass of my wits. I hear thou must - and nothing may prorogue it - On Thursday next to be married to this County.
Let not the Nurse lie with thee in thy chamber. Take thou this vial, being in bed, and this distilling liquor drink thou off; when presently through all thy veins shall run a cold and drowsy humour, for no pulse shall keep his native progress, but surcease; no warmth, no breath shall testify thou livest.
Give me, give me!
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