Oyonale - Créations 3D et expériences graphiques
ShakeSpam
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The potent poison quite o'er-crows my spirit: Is Romeo slaughter'd, and is Tybalt dead? His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God! Your royal father's murder'd. And in this brainish apprehension, kills There's one did laugh in's sleep, and one cried, "Murder!" He has kill'd me, mother: Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill. Who should against his murderer shut the door, And take my milk for gall, your murdering ministers, And that bare vowel I shall poison more Who should against his murderer shut the door, Everything you ever wanted, Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor
Shall sleep no more,--Macbeth shall sleep no more! - Alack the day!--he's gone, he's kill'd, he's dead!
Of this dead butcher, and his fiend-like queen,-- Ay, and since too, murders have been perform'd And smil'st upon the stroke that murders me. If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide, I had a Richard too, and thou didst kill him;
And Tybalt's dead, that would have slain my husband: Methought the souls of all that I had murder'd And slaughter'd those that were the means to help him; To bear a poison, I would temper it,