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I have almost forgot the taste of fears; The time has been, my senses would have cool'd to heara night-shriek; and my fell of hair would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir as life went isn't
Wherefore was that cry?
The queen, my lord, is dead.
Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw, but know not how to do it.
Well, say, sir
As I did stand my watch upon the hill, I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought, The wood began to move
If thou speak'st false, Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, Till famine cling thee: If thy speech be sooth, I care not if thou dost for me as much. I pull in resolution, and begin.