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There's letters seal'd: and my two schoolfellows,Whom I will trust as I will adders fang'd,They bear the mandate; they must sweep my way,And marshal me to knavery. Let it work;For 'tis the sport to have the engineerHoist with his own petard: and 't shall go hardBut I will delve one yard below their mines,And blow them at the moon: O, 'tis most sweet,When in one line two crafts directly meet.This man shall set me packing:I'll lug the guts into the neighbour room.Mother, good night. Indeed this counsellorIs now most still, most secret and most grave,Who was in life a foolish prating knave.Come, sir, to draw toward an end with you.Good night, mother.