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Follow him at foot; tempt him with speed aboard;Delay it not; I'll have him hence to-night:Away! for every thing is seal'd and doneThat else leans on the affair: pray you, make haste.And, England, if my love thou hold'st at aught--As my great power thereof may give thee sense,Since yet thy cicatrice looks raw and redAfter the Danish sword, and thy free awePays homage to us--thou mayst not coldly setOur sovereign process; which imports at full,By letters congruing to that effect,The present death of Hamlet. Do it, England;For like the hectic in my blood he rages,And thou must cure me: till I know 'tis done,Howe'er my haps, my joys were ne'er begun.