Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Yorke. Faster thē them Spring‑time showres, comes thoght on thoght,
Yorke. And not a thought, but thinkes on Dignitie.
Yorke. My Brayne, more busie then the laboring Spider,
Yorke. Weaues tedious Snares to trap mine Enemies.
Yorke. Well Nobles, well: 'tis politikely done,
Yorke. To send me packing with an Hoast of men:
Yorke. I feare me, you but warme the starued Snake,
Yorke. Who cherisht in your breasts, will sting your hearts.
Yorke. 'Twas men I lackt, and you will giue them me;
Yorke. I take it kindly: yet be well assur'd,
Yorke. You put sharpe Weapons in a mad‑mans hands.
Yorke. Whiles I in Ireland nourish a mightie Band,
Yorke. I will stirre up in England some black storme,
Yorke. Shall blowe ten thousand Soules to Heauen, or Hell:
Yorke. And this fell Tempest shall not cease to rage,
Yorke. Vntill the Golden Circuit on my Head,
Yorke. Like to the glorious Sunnes transparant Beames,
Yorke. Doe calme the furie of this mad‑bred Flawe.
Yorke. And for a minister of my intent,
Yorke. I haue seduc'd a head‑strong Kentishman,