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O Fate, take not away thy heavy hand!

O Fate, take not away thy heavy hand!
Death is the fairest cover for her shame
That may be wished for.
How now, cousin Hero?
  Hero stirs.
Friar, to Hero
Have comfort, lady.
But mine, and mine I loved, and mine I praised,
And mine that I was proud on, mine so much
That I myself was to myself not mine
Leonato, to Hero
Dost thou look up?
Yea, wherefore should she not?
Wherefore? Why, doth not every earthly thing

Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny
The story that is printed in her blood?—
Do not live, Hero, do not ope thine eyes,
For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die,
Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames,
Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches,
Strike at thy life. Grieved I I had but one?
Chid I for that at frugal Nature's frame?

O, one too much by thee! Why had I one?Epanalepsis
Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes?Synecdoche
Why had I not with charitable handSynecdoche
Took up a beggar's issue at my gates,
Who smirched thus and mir'd with infamy,
I might have said, —No part of it is mine;
This shame derives itself from unknown loins?
But mine, and mine I lov'd, and mine I prais'd,
And mine that I was proud on, mine so much
That I myself was to myself not mine,Anaphora, Epanalepsis & Epimone

Valuing of her—why, she, O she is fall'n
Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea
Hath drops too few to wash her clean again,
And salt too little which may season giveMetaphor

To her foul tainted flesh!Synecdoche

Act 4
Scene 1
Line 120

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Connected Notes:
Seasons, Elements and Humors