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    <h1>Random Heading</h1>
      Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of
      York; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of
      the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; Our
      bruised arms hung up for monuments; Our stern alarums changed to merry
      meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war
      hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
      And now, instead of mounting barded steeds To fright the souls of fearful
      adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber To the lascivious
      pleasing of a lute. But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor
      made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamp'd, and
      want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am
      curtail'd of this fair proportion,
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