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170 O, what more favour 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? shall I believe That unsubstantial Death is amorous, And that the lean abhorred monster keeps Thee here in dark to be his paramour? For fear of that I still will stay with thee, And never from this palace of dim night Depart again: here, here will I remain With worms that are thy chambermaids; O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest, And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh.—Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you,