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Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of.
More strange than true. I may never believe these antique fables, nor these fairy toys.
Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth. Joy, gentle, friends, joy and fresh days of love accompany your hearts!
A play there is, my lord, some ten words long, which is brief as I have known a play.
What are they that do play it?
Hard- handed men that work in Athens here, which never labour'd in their minds till now
And we will hear it.
If we offend, it is with our good will. That you should think we come not to offend, but with good will.
This fellow doth not stand upon points
O grim-look'd night! O night with hue so black! O night, which ever art when day is not! O night! O night! Alack, alack, alack!
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