Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Perd. (Oh pardon, that I name them:) your high selfe
Perd. The gracious marke o’th’Land, you haue obscur’d
Perd. With a Swaines wearing: and me (poore lowly Maide)
Perd. Most Goddesse‑like prank’d vp: But that our Feasts
Perd. In euery Messe, haue folly; and the Feeders
Perd. Digest with a Custome, I should blush
Perd. To see you so attyr’d: sworne I thinke,
Perd. To shew my selfe a glasse.
Flo. Flo.
Flo. I blesse the time
Flo. When my good Falcon, made her flight a‑crosse
Flo. Thy Fathers ground.
Perd. Perd.
Perd. Now Ioue affoord you cause:
Perd. To me the difference forges dread (your Greatnesse
Perd. Hath not beene vs’d to feare:) euen now I tremble
Perd. To thinke your Father, by some accident
Perd. Should passe this way, as you did: Oh the Fates,
Perd. How would he looke, to see his worke, so noble,
Perd. Vildely bound vp? What would he say? Or how