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Ah my leg!
I have almost forgot the taste of fears
It is the cry of women, my good lord
What is that noise?
The queen, my lord, is dead
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more.
She should have died hereafter
Fear not, till Birnam Wood do come to Dunsinane! And now a wood come to Dunsinane. Arm, arm, and out!
I look toward Birnam, and anon, methought, the wood began to move
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