Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
Mor. Mor.
Mor. You are too great, to be (by me) gainsaid:
Mor. Your Spirit is too true, your Feares too certaine.
North. North.
North. Yet for all this, say not that Percies dead.
North. I see a strange Confession in thine Eye:
North. Thou shak'st thy head, and hold'st it Feare, or Sinne,
North. To speake a truth. If he be slaine, say so:
North. The Tongue offends not, that reports his death:
North. And he doth sinne that doth belye the dead:
North. Not he, which sayes the dead is not aliue:
North. Yet the first bringer of unwelcome Newes
North. Hath but a loosing Office: and his Tongue,
North. Sounds ever after as a sullen Bell
North. Remembred, knolling a departing Friend.
L. Bar. L. Bar.
L. Bar. I cannot thinke (my Lord) your son is dead.
Mor. I am sorry, I should force you to beleeue
Mor. That, which I would to heauen, I had not seene.