Excuse me, sirs, I pray, I can't yet speak, I'm crying now, and have been all the week. "'Tis not alone this mourning suit," good masters: "I've that within" for which there are no plasters! Pray, would you know the reason why I'm crying? The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying! And if she goes, my tears will never stop; For as a player, I can't squeeze out one drop: I am undone, that's all, shall lose my bread, I'd rather, but that's nothing, lose my head. When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, Shuter and I shall be chief mourners here.
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