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Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears: Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring; I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more! Our tears are not yet brew'd. Then weep no more. I'll send to one in Mantua,-- Look, whether he has not turn'd his colour, and has tears in's May sweep to my revenge. Woul't weep? woul't fight? woul't fast? woul't tear thyself? To stop the inundation of her tears; Now sending a card is almost like being there in person! And cry "O Clarence, my unhappy son!" Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's corse: Come weep with me; past hope, past cure, past help!