Oyonale - Créations 3D et expériences graphiques
ShakeSpam
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To an impatient child that hath new robes, Than is his father's, must embrace the fate To press before thy father to a grave? Have you your father's leave? What says Polonius? I cannot blame her: by God's holy mother, The son of Clarence have I pent up close; I stay too long:--but here my father comes. A bloody deed!--almost as bad, good mother, Good morrow, father! A ministering angel shall my sister be A beggar, brother? The son and heir of old Tiberio. And I'll salute your grace of York as mother Thy brother's love, our duty, and thy faults, He is all the mother's, from the top to toe. But that thy brothers beat aside the point. Our brother is imprison'd by your means, 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. - To see thy son and heir more early down.
Long mayest thou live to wail thy children's death;