Click on the verses to see them in context. Shakespeare's plays are available from the Gutenberg Projet.
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Go to thy death-bed, Alas, I blame you not; for you are mortal, No sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean, This is thy sheath [stabs herself]; there rest, and let me die. James Tyrrel, and your most obedient subject. A thing like death to chide away this shame, And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm, With one that saw him die: who did report, I dreamt my lady came and found me dead,--