Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Sal. Now by the death of him that dyed for all,
Sal. These Counties were the Keyes of Normandie:
Sal. But wherefore weepes Warwicke, my valiant sonne?
War. War.
War. For greefe that they are past recouerie.
War. For were there hope to conquer them againe,
War. My sword should shed hot blood, mine eyes no teares.
War. Aniou and Maine? My selfe did win them both:
War. Those Prouinces, these Armes of mine did conquer,
War. And are the Citties that I got with wounds,
War. Deliuer'd vp againe with peacefull words?
War. Mort Dieu.
Yorke. Yorke.
Yorke. For Suffolkes Duke, may he be suffocate,
Yorke. That dims the Honor of this Warlike Isle:
Yorke. France should haue torne and rent my very hart,
Yorke. Before I would haue yeelded to this League.
Yorke. I neuer read but Englands Kings haue had
Yorke. Large summes of Gold, and Dowries with their wiues,
Yorke. And our King Henry giues away his owne,