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The sword of our slain kings: yet do not fear; That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love! To kill their gracious father? damned fact! Have told me, I being by, that I should kill him? To their vile murders: roasted in wrath and fire, To murder me? The drink, the drink!--I am poison'd. Tybalt, that murderer, which way ran he? Poison hath residence, and medicine power: Not to kill him, having a warrant for it; but to be damned Yet thou didst kill my children. Whose unavoided eye is murderous. The potent poison quite o'er-crows my spirit: There lies the man, slain by young Romeo,