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Madam, my mother, I do cry you mercy; The cry is still, "They come:" our castle's strength Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death, Like Niobe, all tears;--why she, even she,-- Madam, my mother, I do cry you mercy; Cry to be heard, as 'twere from heaven to earth, I would these dewy tears were from the ground. With barefac'd power sweep him from my sight, Which you weep for. I for a Clarence weep, so doth not she: