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What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse? Or shall we on without apology?
After the prompter, for our entrance; But let them measure us by what they will, We’ll measure them a measure, and be gone
Not I, believe me. You have dancing shoes With nimble soles; I have a soul of lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
You are a lover. Borrow Cupid’s wings And soar with them above a common bound.
I dreamt a dream tonight.
And so did I. That dreamers often lie.
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