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You know your own degrees; sit down. At first And last, the hearty welcome.
My lord, his throat is cut. That I did for him.
Tis better thee without than he within. Is he dispatched?
O proper stuff! This is the very painting of your fear. This is the air-drawn dagger which you said Led you to Duncan. Oh, these flaws and starts, Impostors to true fear, would well become A woman’s story at a winter’s fire, Authorized by her grandam. Shame itself! Why do you make such faces? When all’s done, You look but on a stool.
Most royal sir, Fleance is ’scaped.
Then comes my fit again. I had else been perfect, Whole as the marble, founded as the rock, As broad and general as the casing air. But now I am cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in To saucy doubts and fears.—But Banquo’s safe?
The table’s full.
Here is a place reserved, sir.
His absence, sir, Lays blame upon his promise. Please ’t your highness To grace us with your royal company?
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