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The king doth wake tonight and takes his rouse, Keeps wassail, and the swagg'ring uprising reels
My fate cries out And makes each petty arture in this body as hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve. Still am I called. Unhand me, gentlemen.
Be ruled. You shall not go
Brief let me be. Sleeping within my orchard, My custom always of the afternoon, Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial, And in the porches of my ears did pour
That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain. At least I’m sure it may be so in Denmark. (writes) So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word. It is "adieu, adieu, remember me." I have sworn't.
Never to speak of this that you have seen Swear by my sword
In faith, my lord, not I.
Nor I, my lord, in faith.
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