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Thou wrong'st it more than tears with that report. And twenty times made pause, to sob and weep, With open outcry, toward our monument. I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more! The pretty wretch left crying, and said 'Ay:' I for a Clarence weep, so doth not she: Ah, who shall hinder me to wail and weep, And that dear saint which then I weeping follow'd; With barefac'd power sweep him from my sight, Thou wrong'st it more than tears with that report. The liquid drops of tears that you have shed Or, wanting that, with tears distill'd by moans: