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O Mistres Dority, tis e'ne long of you, for betweene sleepe and awake your remembrance came to me this morning, and Thomas was up presently. Ri. You must excuse me, wife; I meane to kill a brace of hares before You thinke tis day. Come, on with my Bootes, Thomas; And Dorothy goe you to Sir Francis Chamber, Tell him the Day growes old and I am readie, Our horses and the merry hounds expect us. La.
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