Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,And better than thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
line X from the play
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