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That, sweepstake, you will draw both friend and foe, How cheerfully on the false trail they cry! Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death, Thou wrong'st it more than tears with that report. Why, let the strucken deer go weep, She for an Edward weeps, and so do I: With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew, The pretty wretch left crying, and said 'Ay:' Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring; It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash