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How now! what noise is that?O heat, dry up my brains! tears seven times salt,Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye!By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight,Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May!Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!O heavens! is't possible, a young maid's witsShould be as moral as an old man's life?Nature is fine in love, and where 'tis fine,It sends some precious instance of itselfAfter the thing it loves.