Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Tim. He is an Vsurer. Strike me the counterfet Matron,
Tim. It is her habite onely, that is honest,
Tim. Her selfe's a Bawd. Let not the Virgins cheeke
Tim. Make soft thy trenchant Sword: for those Milke pappes
Tim. That through the window Barne bore at mens eyes,
Tim. Are not within the Leafe of pitty writ,
Tim. But set them down horrible Traitors. Spare not the Bbe
Tim. Whose dimpled smiles from Fooles exhaust their mercy;
Tim. Thinke it a Bastard, whom the Oracle
Tim. Hath doubtfully pronounced, the throat shall cut,
Tim. And mince it sans remorse. Sweare against Obiects,
Tim. Put Armour on thine eares, and on thine eyes,
Tim. Whose proofe, nor yels of Mothers, Maides, nor Babes,
Tim. Nor sight of Priests in holy Vestments bleeding,
Tim. Shall pierce a iot. There's Gold to pay thy Souldiers,
Tim. Make large confusion: and thy fury spent,
Tim. Confounded be thy selfe. Speake not, be gone.
Alc. Alc.
Alc. Hast thou Gold yet, Ile take the Gold thou gi
Alc. uest me, not all thy Counsell.