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If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me, Without my stir.
Come what come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.
Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires:
Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under’t.
It is concluded:—Banquo, thy soul’s flight, If it find heaven, must find it out to-night.
