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Updated: 12/4/2018
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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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