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Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage;
We will haste us
Thanks, dear my lord.
My lord, he's going to his mother's closet: Behind the arras I'll convey myself,
My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? 'Forgive me my foul murder'?
A villain kills my father; and for that, I, his sole son, do this same villain send To heaven.
He will come straight. Look you lay home to him: Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with
How now! a rat? Dead, for a ducat, dead!
What wilt thou do? thou wilt not murder me? Help, help, ho!
O, I am slain!
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