Direct reading · Original
Section 917
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Iul.
Go get thee hence, for I will notuaway,
What's here? A cup clos'd in my true lo:es hand?
Poyson I see hath bin his timelesse end
O churle, drinke all? and left no friendly drop,
To helpe me after, I will kisse thy lips,
Happlie some poyson yet doth hang on them,
To make me die with a restoratiue.
Thy lips are warme.