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The English force, so please you.
Go, prick thy face and over-red thy fear, Thou lily-livered boy. What soldiers, patch? Death of thy soul! Those linen cheeks of thine Are counselors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face?
Let every soldier hew him down a bough And bear ’t before him. Thereby shall we shadow The numbers of our host and make discovery Err in report of us.
I have almost forgot the taste of fears. The time has been my senses would have cooled To hear a night-shriek, and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir As life were in ’t. I have supped full with horrors. Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts Cannot once start me.
The queen, my lord, is dead.
My name’s Macbeth.
The devil himself could not pronounce a title More hateful to mine ear.
I have no words. My voice is in my sword. Thou bloodier villain Than terms can give thee out!
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