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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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Or thinking by our late dear brother's death

 The queen, my lord, is dead. To time and mortal custom.--Yet my heart God will, in justice, ward you as his soldiers; But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them. We should profane the service of the dead And make me die a good old man!-- With pestilent speeches of his father's death; In riddles and affairs of death; And call the noblest to the audience. For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death, Rivers that died at Pomfret! despair and die! That makes us wretched by the death of thee, 
To threaten me with death is most unlawful.