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Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary It is the cry of women, my good lord. To think it should leave crying, and say 'Ay:' | How now! a conduit, girl? what, still in tears? |
I for an Edward weep, so do not they:-- Look, whether he has not turn'd his colour, and has tears in's Evermore weeping for your cousin's death? To overgo thy woes and drown thy cries? There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk. How cheerfully on the false trail they cry! I for a Clarence weep, so doth not she: Well, girl, thou weep'st not so much for his death Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires;