Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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King. throng after him smiling, and whispering.
Car. Car.
Car. What should this meane?
Car. What sodaine Anger's this? How haue I reap'd it?
Car. He parted Frowning from me, as if Ruine
Car. Leap'd from his Eyes. So lookes the chafed Lyon
Car. Vpon the daring Huntsman that has gall'd him:
Car. Then makes him nothing. I must reade this paper:
Car. I feare the Story of his Anger. 'Tis so:
Car. This paper ha's vndone me: 'Tis th'Accompt
Car. Of all that world of Wealth I haue drawne together
Car. For mine owne ends, (Indeed to gaine the Popedome,
Car. And fee my Friends in Rome.) O Negligence!
Car. Fit for a Foole to fall by: What crosse Diuell
Car. Made me put this maine Secret in the Packet
Car. I sent the King? Is there no way to cure this?
Car. No new deuice to beate this from his Braines?
Car. I know't will stirre him strongly; yet I know
Car. A way, if it take right, in spight of Fortune
Car. Will bring me off againe. What's this? To th'Pope?