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Click on the verses to see them in context. Shakespeare's plays are available from the Gutenberg Projet.

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This quarry cries on havoc.--O proud death,

 Weep our sad bosoms empty. Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping. And damn'd be him that first cries, "Hold, enough!" Swits and spurs, swits and spurs; or I'll cry a match. They shall be praying nuns, not weeping queens; Ay, millstones; as he lesson'd us to weep. With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew, The tears have got small victory by that; Swits and spurs, swits and spurs; or I'll cry a match. With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes, And make poor England weep in streams of blood! The tears have got small victory by that; Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's corse: Wash they his wounds with tears: mine shall be spent, Harpier cries:--"tis time, 'tis time. No, coz, I rather weep. O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps; Aroint thee, witch! the rump-fed ronyon cries. To stop the inundation of her tears; For me to joy and weep their gain and loss: And twenty times made pause, to sob and weep, Whips out his rapier, cries 'A rat, a rat!'