Oyonale - Créations 3D et expériences graphiques
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Ah for our father, for our dear Lord Clarence! Mark Antony's was by Caesar. He chid the sisters Dead art thou, dead!--alack, my child is dead; They met me in the day of success; and I have
learned by the perfectest report they have more in them than
mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them
further, they made themselves air, into which they vanished.
Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from
the king, who all-hailed me, 'Thane of Cawdor'; by which title,
before, these weird sisters saluted me, and referred me to the
coming on of time, with 'Hail, king that shalt be!' This have
I thought good to deliver thee, my dearest partner of
greatness; that thou mightst not lose the dues of rejoicing, by
being ignorant of what greatness is promised thee. Lay it to thy
heart, and farewell. Did to thy father, steep'd in Rutland's blood,-- I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault, Better it were they all came by his father, You say that Edward is your brother's son: Why should I, mother? Poor birds they are not set for. Saw you the weird sisters? Ah, aunt, you wept not for our father's death! | To part the queen's proud kindred from the Prince. |