Oyonale - 3D art and graphic experiments
ShakeSpam
Click on the verses to see them in context. Shakespeare's plays are available from the Gutenberg Projet.
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Our opportunity is the only business of its kind right now. | And cry "O Clarence, my unhappy son!" |
Will want true colour; tears perchance for blood. Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping. O heat, dry up my brains! tears seven times salt, Who,--raging with thy tears and they with them,-- Wash they his wounds with tears: mine shall be spent, They cry 'Choose we! Laertes shall be king!' O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps; Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires; Wash they his wounds with tears: mine shall be spent, Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary How can we aid you with our kindred tears? Cry but 'Ah me!' pronounce but Love and dove; With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew, I for an Edward weep, so do not they:-- You live that shall cry woe for this hereafter. Weep our sad bosoms empty. It is the cry of women, my good lord. These babes for Clarence weep, and so do I; And bid her wipe her weeping eyes withal. Thou wrong'st it more than tears with that report.