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| What do you mean, my lord | |
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| There, Leonato, take her back again... She knows the heat of a luxurious bed. | |
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| Death is the fairest cover for her shame That may be wished for | |
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| Upon mine honor, Myself, my brother, and this grieved count Did see her, hear her, ath that hour last night Talk with a ruffian at her chamber window | |
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| Two of them have the very bent of honor, And if their wisdoms be misled in this, the practice of it lives in John the Bastard, Whose spirits toil in frame of villanies | |
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| There is some strange misprision in the princess | |
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