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| Me be not proud, though some have called me mighty and dreadful, for, I am not so, For, those, whom I think'st, I dost overthrow, | |
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| Die not, poor me, nor yet canst me kill thee; From rest and sleepe, which but my pictures bee, | |
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| Much pleasure, then from me, much more must flow, And soonest our best men with me doe go, Rest of their bones, and souls delivery. | |
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| Me art slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, | |
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| And poppy, or charms can make you sleep as well, And better then my stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, and I shall be no more, me, I shalt die. | |
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