Under the Sick Amore Tree

Amore

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Drift

In every which way

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Death

Methought I heard a voice cry, “Sleep no more!
Macbeth does murder sleep”—the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care,
The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s feast.

– William Shakespeare, Macbeth (line 35-40)

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