All of Shakespeare’s plays.
Fly, my lord, fly.
Fly, fly, my lord; there is no tarrying here.
Now is that noble vessel full of grief,
That it runs over even at his eyes.
What ill request did Brutus make to thee?
I'll rather kill myself.
What, I, my lord? No, not for all the world.
Statilius show'd the torch-light, but, my lord,
He came not back: he is or ta'en or slain.
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