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I fear thy nature; It is too full o'the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way.
Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
Thou hast it now: king, Cawdor, Glamis, all, As the weird women promised.
Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care.
The Queen my lord is dead.
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