Come, you spirits 40 That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, And fill me from the crown to the toe topfull Of direst cruelty. Make thick my blood; 43 Stop up th’ access and passage to remorse, 44 That no compunctious visitings of nature 45 Shake my fell purpose nor keep peace between Th’ effect and it. Come to my woman’s breasts 47 And take my milk for gall, you murd’ring ministers, 48 Wherever in your sightless substances 49 You wait on nature’s mischief. Come, thick night, 50 And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, Nor heaven peep
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