?̶̣͌̓̑͌͌͋̇̎̎͠?̸̡̦̟̯̮̮̳̤͖͗̈́͘?̵͓̱̟͍̝̻̮̘̌̂̀͝ ̵̧͇̣̜͍̞̗̟̮͉̎͐̂̍̒́̈́͗͜m̵̧̨͎̯͇̯͉̘̮͓͈͙̀̂̎́͐̔̕͝ͅo̶̥̣̦͉̻͛̊n̵̛̲̮̥̣̲͉̗̖͈̳̼̰̏͒̓̅̾̒͂̉̀̃̿̎͝t̶͓̻̳̩͕̫͎̟͙̲̘͉̞̖̄͛̕h̷̰̮̏͗̄̐̔͌̊̈́͘̕̚s̷̥͍͕̖̳͓͈̖̮̓͗́̒͆̐̎̿̽̂̋̽̔͌ ̷͈̼͖͍̺̯͍̥̬̩̙̈̍̃ͅs̷̛̙̠̯̫̻̲͎̺̝͇̒́̄̑̒͑̀͂̈͆́͋̋̃i̸͉̰̋̽n̶̥̩̤̹̙̩̮̘̼̦̈́ͅc̵͖̊̏͋͂̓̓̒͆͠ȩ̵̛̛̖́́͘.̴̛͚̬̺̼̜͉̱̫̪́̿̂̍͊͘͜ ̸̮̰̹̗̯̱̻̱͙͊͒̓̓̿͛̑̔̾͋̓͘͜͠ͅͅ:̴̛̭̖́̀̃{̸̡̡̨̤̟̱̙̪̭̖̬̭͉͒͛͛̓̒͗͆̋̕ͅ}̴̡̲̦̗̠̥͈͔͔͇̏͋͊̄̈͛̊͘̕͠ͅ|̸̨̧͔͔̬̬̱͙̭̤̪͌̅͗̔̒̆͐̍|̶̛̞̗̀̅͝{̸̡̘̲̜̟͇͉̜̈̇̓͠}̷̢̢̡̙͚͖̮̺̭̦̤̒̓̀̈́̀̍̐̑̍͂̽́̌̚͜͠{̵̢̡̹̘̖̱̼̫̪̣͖̖̐̿̾̉͐̏͑̌͂̓̔̽̐̕ͅͅ}̴̡̛͇͎͉̟̞̰͔̯̤̘͈̓͑̈́̃̅̄̊̐̓͆̕͠͝͝ͅ|̵́̅̾͌̀͋

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HORATIO. Never believe it. I am more an antique Roman than a Dane. Here’s yet some liquor left.

As th’art a man,
Give me the cup. Let go; by Heaven, I’ll have’t.
O good Horatio, what a wounded name,
Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me.
If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart,
Absent thee from felicity awhile,
And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain,
To tell my story.