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The queen! What care

Hath she for thee, or pain of thine?

She will;

And weep my babe's low station!

Thou hast skill

To know her, child; say on.

But bring her here,

Here to my hand; the rest will come.

I swear,

Here at the gate she shall stand palpable!

The gate: the gate that leads to me and Hell.

Let me but see it, and I die content.

First, then, my brother: see his steps be bent

Straight yonder, where Aegisthus makes his prayer!