stars, hide your fires;
let not light see my black and deep desires.
fair is foul, and foul is fair:
hover through the fog and filthy air. (Macbeth)
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to bite the hand that feeds,
and all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.
thrice from thine and thrice to thither,
once to mine and make it fine,
let them cry for, let them
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