Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
Art. Many a poore mans sonne would haue lyen still,
Art. And nere haue spoke a louing word to you:
Art. But you, at your sicke seruice had a Prince:
Art. Nay, you may thinke my loue was craftie loue,
Art. And call it cunning. Do, and if you will,
Art. b
Art. If
Art. The life and death of King Iohn.
Art. If heauen be pleas'd that you must vse me ill,
Art. Why then you must. Will you put out mine eyes?
Art. These eyes, that neuer did, nor neuer shall
Art. So much as frowne on you.
Hub. Hub.
Hub. I haue sworne to do it:
Hub. And with hot Irons must I burne them out.
Ar. Ar.
Ar. Ah, none but in this Iron Age, would do it:
Ar. The Iron of it selfe though he ate red hot,
Ar. Approaching neere these eyes, would drinke my teares,
Ar. And quench this fierie indignation,