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6 My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smother'd in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.
7 Duncan is in his grave; After life's fitful fever he sleeps well; Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing Can touch him further.
8 The son of Duncan, From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth, Lives in the English court and is receiv'd Of the most pious Edward with such grace That the malevolence of fortune nothing Takes from his high respect.