Oyonale - 3D art and graphic experiments
ShakeSpam
Click on the verses to see them in context. Shakespeare's plays are available from the Gutenberg Projet.
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Ah, aunt, you wept not for our father's death! A thing like death to chide away this shame, Here in Verona, ladies of esteem, Why follow'd not, when she said Tybalt's dead, More miserable by the death of him That do conspire my death with devilish plots Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead, That death and nature do contend about them, That fair for which love groan'd for, and would die, [To KING RICHARD.] When I was mortal, my anointed body For the ingredients of our caldron. It may be death. Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death. And his commission to employ those soldiers, From the dead temples of this bloody wretch Why follow'd not, when she said Tybalt's dead,