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I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our times to come
O, thinkest thou we shall ever meet again?
O Fortune, Fortune! All men call thee fickle. If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him that is renowned for faith? Be fickle Fortune, for then I hope thou wilt not keep him long, But send him back.
Ay, sir. but she will none, she gives you thanks. I would the fool we're married to her grave!
Act 3 Scene 5
Hang thee, young baggage! Disobedient wretch!...do not answer me! My fingers itch.
Delay this marriage for a month, a week. Or if you do not, make the bridal bed in that dim monument where Tybalt lies.
If all else fail, myself have the power to die.
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