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death, that hath sucked the honey
of thy breath, hath had no power yet
upon thy beuaty: thou art not
conquered beauty's ensign yet
is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,
and death's pale flag is not advanced there.
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tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?
o, what more favor can i do to thee,
than with that hand that cut thy youth
in twain to sunder his that was thine enemy?
forgive me, cousin! ah, dear juliet,

why art thou yet so fair?
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