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Great sorrows have no leisure to complain: Least ills vent forth, great griefs within remain. - [Sorrow] Murder itself is past all expiation, The greatest crime that nature doth abhor. - [Murder] My rage is not malicious; like a spark Of fire by steel inforced out of a flint It is no sooner kindled, but extinct. - [Anger] The sweetest cordial we receive at last, Is conscience of our virtuous actions past. - [Conscience]
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