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| These letters give, Iago, to the pilot, And by him do my duties to the senate. That done, I will be walking on the works, Repair there to me. | |
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| Well, my good lord, I’ll do ’t. | |
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| If thou dost slander her and torture me, Never pray more. Abandon all remorse. | |
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| Oh, grace! Oh, heaven forgive me! Are you a man? Have you a soul or sense? God buy you, take mine office. | |
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|    I greet thy love Not with vain thanks but with acceptance bounteous, | |
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|  My friend is dead, 'Tis done at your request. But let her live. | |
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