Cymbeline, [3.4.11-16]. Imogen. “Why tender’st thou that paper to me, with/ A look untender? If ‘t be summer news,/ Smile to ‘t before; if winterly, thou need’st/ But keep that count’ nance still. My husband’s hand?/ That drug-dammn’d Italy hath outcraftied him,/ And he’s at some hard point. Speak, man.”


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