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I have almost forgot the taste of fears. The time has been, my senses would have cool'd To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir As life were in 't: I have supp'd full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, Cannot once start me. Re-enter Seyton. Wherefore was that cry? Seyton. The queen, my lord, is dead.
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