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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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Direness, familiar to my slaught'rous thoughts,

 To hide the slain?--O, from this time forth, As ours by murder, to make him a king! Tybalt, that murderer, which way ran he? In the division of each several crime, Thy Edward he is dead, that kill'd my Edward; He has kill'd me, mother: I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none. To murder me? Methought their souls whose bodies Richard murder'd For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late, 
To do this piece of ruthless butchery,
 Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain, Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. Five have I slain to-day instead of him.-- Nay, he is dead; and slain by Edward's hand. 
  • O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs