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 Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid ; Fly away, fly away, breath ; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it ! My part of death, no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower...  The Plays of William Shakspeare: Sketch of the life of Shakspeare. Tempest ... - Página 277 por William Shakespeare - 1811 Visualização integral -
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