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When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
When the hurly-burly’s done, When the battle’s lost and won.
That will be ere the set of sun.
No sooner justice had, with valor armed, Compelled these skipping kerns to trust their heels, But the Norweyan lord, surveying vantage, With furbished arms and new supplies of men, Began a fresh assault.
So well thy words become thee as thy wounds; They smack of honor both. Go get him surgeons.
The thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict, Till that Bellona’s bridegroom, lapped in proof, Confronted him with self-comparisons, Point against point, rebellious arm 'gainst arm, Curbing his lavish spirit; and to conclude, The victory fell on us.
No more that thane of Cawdor shall deceive Our bosom interest: go pronounce his present death, And with his former title greet Macbeth.
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