Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
Sal. That leaues the print of blood where ere it walkes.
Sal. Returne, and tell him so: we know the worst.
Bast. Bast.
Bast. What ere you thinke, good words I thinke
Bast. were best.
Sal. Sal.
Sal. Our greefes, and not our manners reason now.
Bast. But there is little reason in your greefe.
Bast. Therefore 'twere reason you had manners now.
Pem. Pem.
Pem. Sir, sir, impatience hath his priuiledge.
Bast. 'Tis true, to hurt his master, no mans else.
Sal. This is the prison: What is he lyes heere?
P. P.
P. Oh death, made proud with pure & princely beuty,
P. The earth had not a hole to hide this deede.