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Have I thought long to see this morning’s face, And doth it give me such a sight as this?
O child! O child! my soul, and not my child! Dead art thou! Alack! my child is dead; And with my child my joys are buried.
Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him; And go, Sir Paris; every one prepare To follow this fair corse unto her grave: The heavens do lour upon you for some ill; Move them no more by crossing their high will.
Musicians, O, musicians, “Heart’s ease, Heart’s ease”: O, an you will have me live, play “Heart’s ease.”
Why “Heart’s ease”?
O, musicians, because my heart itself plays “My heart is full of woe”: O, play me some merry dump, to comfort me
O, I cry you mercy; you are the singer: I will say for you. It is “music with her silver sound,” because musicians have no gold for sounding: “Then music with her silver sound With speedy help doth lend redress.”
Hang him, Jack! Come, we’ll in here; tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner.
What a pestilent knave is this same!
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