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And I, in such a desperate bay of death, The horrible conceit of death and night, Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point, That fair for which love groan'd for, and would die, And if I die no soul will pity me:
That do conspire my death with devilish plots Death, desolation, ruin, and decay: This quarry cries on havoc.--O proud death, Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep: