Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
Mor. Dowglas is liuing, and your Brother, yet:
Mor. But for my Lord, your Sonne.
North. North.
North. Why he is dead.
North. See what a ready tongue Suspition hath:
North. He that but feares the thing, he would not know,
North. Hath by Instinct, knowledge from others Eyes,
North. That what he feard, is chanc'd. Yet speake (Morton)
North. Tell thou thy Earle, his Diuination Lies,
North. And I will take it, as a sweet Disgrace,
North. And make thee rich, for doing me such wrong.
Mor. Mor.
Mor. You are too great, to be (by me) gainsaid:
Mor. Your Spirit is too true, your Feares too certaine.
North. Yet for all this, say not that Percies dead.
North. I see a strange Confession in thine Eye:
North. Thou shak'st thy head, and hold'st it Feare, or Sinne,
North. To speake a truth. If he be slaine, say so:
North. The Tongue offends not, that reports his death: