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Thou losest labour: As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air With thy keen sword impress as make me bleed:
Despair thy charm; And let the angel whom thou still hast served Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb Untimely ripp'd.
Accursed be that tongue that tells me so, For it hath cow'd my better part of man! And be these juggling fiends no more believed,
Then yield thee, coward, And live to be the show and gaze o' the time: We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are, Painted on a pole, and underwrit, 'Here may you see the tyrant.'
Yet I will try the last. Before my body I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff, And damn'd be him that first cries, 'Hold, enough!'
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