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DUKE VINCENTIO
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Be absolute for death; either death or life
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Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with
life:
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If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing
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That none but fools would keep: a breath thou
art,
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Servile to all the skyey influences,
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That dost this habitation, where thou keep'st,
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Hourly afflict: merely, thou art death's fool;
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For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun
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And yet runn'st toward him still. Thou art not
noble;
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For all the accommodations that thou bear'st
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Are nursed by baseness. Thou'rt by no means
valiant;
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For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork
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Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep,
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And that thou oft provokest; yet grossly
fear'st
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Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not
thyself;
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For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains
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That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not;
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