Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Ber. She passes prayse, then prayse too short doth blot.
Ber. A withered Hermite, fiuescore winters worne,
Ber. Might shake off fiftie, looking in her eye:
Ber. Beauty doth varnish Age, as if new borne,
Ber. And giues the Crutch the Cradles infancie.
Ber. O 'tis the Sunne that maketh all things shine.
King. King.
King. By heauen, thy Loue is blacke as Ebonie.
Berow. Berow.
Berow. Is Ebonie like her? O word diuine?
Berow. A wife of such wood were felicite.
Berow. O who can giue an oth? Where is a booke?
Berow. That I may sweare Beauty doth beauty lacke,
Berow. If that she learne not of her eye to looke:
Berow. No face is faire that is not full so blacke.
Kin. Kin.
Kin. O paradoxe, Blacke is the badge of hell,
Kin. The hue of dungeons, and the Schoole of night:
Kin. And beauties crest becomes the heauens well.
Ber. Ber.