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Click on the verses to see them in context. Shakespeare's plays are available from the Gutenberg Projet.

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My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt

 And his commission to employ those soldiers, That are but mutes or audience to this act, This quarry cries on havoc.--O proud death, Then you conclude, my grandam, he is dead. And drop into the rotten mouth of death. Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine 
Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep:

 Though not by war, by surfeit die your king, 1. Light weight.