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Click on the verses to see them in context. Shakespeare's plays are available from the Gutenberg Projet.

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Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child;

 The king, that calls your beauteous daughter wife, And the dire death of my poor sons and brothers? I cannot blame her: by God's holy mother, Why should I, mother? Poor birds they are not set for. What 'twere to kill a father; so should Fleance. This letter he early bid me give his father; Than is the doating title of a mother; Ravish our daughters?--Hark! I hear their drum. Untimely smother'd in their dusky graves. A care-craz'd mother to a many sons, Ay brother,--to our grief, as it is yours: The prince my brother hath outgrown me far. That I, the son of a dear father murder'd, The unity the king thy brother made