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Click on the verses to see them in context. Shakespeare's plays are available from the Gutenberg Projet.


With reverend fathers and well learned bishops.

 Why should I, mother? Poor birds they are not set for. His master's child, as worshipfully he terms it, master's daughter. Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood That I, the son of a dear father murder'd, Our brother is imprison'd by your means, Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood That is the butt end of a mother's blessing; This letter he early bid me give his father; My brother kill'd no man,--his fault was thought, Loath to depose the child, your brother's son-- Have I a tongue to doom my brother's death, If I introduce even a few people to my supplier so to speak.  (And betimes I will) to the weird sisters: Mother, you have my father much offended. As kill a king and marry with his brother. My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.-- Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell, Where is my father and my mother, nurse?