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When shall we three meet again?
When the hurly-burly's done, When the battles lost & won
That will be the ere set of sun
Glamis thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt be What thou art promised. Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' th' milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great, Art not without ambition, but without The illness should attend it
Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full Of direst cruelty.
Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?
That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold. What hath quenched them hath given me fire. Hark! Peace! It was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bellman, Which gives the stern’st good-night. He is about it. The doors are open, and the surfeited grooms Do mock their charge with snores. I have drugged their possets, That death and nature do contend about them, Whether they live or die.
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