Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Mor. I ran from Shrewsbury (my Noble Lord)
Mor. Where hatefull death put on his vgliest Maske
Mor. To fright our party.
North. North.
North. How doth my Sonne, and Brother?
North. Thou trembl'st; and the whitenesse in thy Cheeke
North. Is apter then thy Tongue, to tell thy Errand.
North. Euen such a man, so faint, so spiritlesse,
North. So dull, so dead in looke, so woe‑be‑gone,
North. Drew Priams Curtaine, in the dead of night,
North. And would haue told him, Halfe his Troy was burn'd.
North. But Priam found the Fire, ere he his Tongue:
North. And I, my Percies death, ere thou report'st it.
North. This, thou would'st say; Your Sonne did thus, and thus:
North. Your Brother, thus. So fought the Noble Dowglas,
North. Stopping my greedy care, with their bold deeds.
North. But in the end (to stop mine Eare indeed)
North. Thou hast a Sigh, to blow away this Praise,
North. Ending with Brother, Sonne, and all are dead.
Mor. Mor.