Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
Mort. Mort.
Mort. O, I am Ignorance it selfe in this.
Glend. Glend.
Glend. She bids you,
Glend. On the wanton Rushes lay you downe,
Glend. And rest your gentle Head vpon her Lappe,
Glend. And she will sing the Song that pleaseth you,
Glend. And on your Eye‑lids Crowne the God of Sleepe,
Glend. Charming your blood with pleasing heauinesse;
Glend. Making such difference betwixt Wake and Sleepe,
Glend. As is the difference betwixt Day and Night,
Glend. The houre before the Heauenly Harneis'd Teeme
Glend. Begins his Golden Progresse in the East.
Mort. With all my heart Ile sit, and heare her sing:
Mort. By that time will our Booke, I thinke, be drawne.
Glend. Doe so:
Glend. And those Musitians that shall play to you,
Glend. Hang in the Ayre a thousand Leagues from thence;