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you came to cadmus' city and unbond the tax we had to pay to the harsh singer, did it without a helpful word from us
whoever murdered him may also wish to punish me- and with the selsame hand. in helping him i also serve myslef
i am not creon's man. he's nothing to me. hear this, since you have thrown my blindess at me; you eyes can't see the evil to which you've come, nor where you live, nor wo is in you house
blind, who once could see, a better who was rich, through fereigh see, he'll go and point before him which a stick. to his beloved children, a brother; to the one who bore him, son and husband; to his father, his see-fellow and killer.
how could the kingship bring me more delight than this untroubled power and influence? i'm not misguided you to such a point that profitable honors aren't enough.
that when his fate arrived he would be killed by a son who would be born to him and me. and yet, so it s told, foreigh robbers murdered him, at the place where three roads meet,
doomed man! never find out hwo you are! man of misery! no other name shill address you by, ever again
from that particular fault: the dram of evil doth all the noble substance often doubt, to his own scandal
i do not set my life at a pin's fee and for my sould, what can it do to that being a thing immortal as itself;it waves me forth again, i'll follow it
upon my secure hour thy uncle stole with juice of cursed hebona in a vial and it the porches of my ears did purt the leperous distilment
that i, the osn of a dear father murdered prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell mush like awhore unpack my heart with words and fall a cursing like a very drab and scullion, fie upon't foh
i say we will have no moe marriage. those that are married already, all but one shall live, the rest shal keep as they are: to a nunnery go.
good my lord, what is your cause of distemper? you do surley bar the door upon your own libergy, it you deny your girelf to your friend
on my offence is rank it smells to heaven, it hath the primal eldest curse upon't a brother's murder. pray can i not though inclination be as sharp as will
thou turn'st my eyes into my very sour and there is such black and grained spots as will not leave their rinct
there's fennel for you, and columbines. there rue for you and here's some for me, we may call it herb of grace o' sundays: o, you mush wear your rue with a difference there's daisy. i would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died: they say a made a good end.
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