Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Fri. Digressing from the Valour of a man,
Fri. Thy deare Loue sworne but hollow periurie,
Fri. Killing that Loue which thou hast vow'd to cherish.
Fri. Thy wit, that Ornament, to shape and Loue,
Fri. Mishapen in the conduct of them both:
Fri. Like powder in a skillesse Souldiers flaske,
Fri. Is set a fire by thine owne ignorance,
Fri. And thou dismembred with thine owne defence.
Fri. What, rowse thee man, thy Iuliet is aliue,
Fri. For whose deare sake thou wast but lately dead.
Fri. There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee,
Fri. But thou slew'st Tybalt, there art thou happie.
Fri. The law that threatned death became thy Friend,
Fri. And turn'd it to exile, there art thou happy.
Fri. A packe or blessing light vpon thy backe,
Fri. Happinesse Courts thee in her best array,
Fri. But like a mishaped and sullen wench,
Fri. Thou puttest vp thy Fortune and thy Loue:
Fri. Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.
Fri. Goe get thee to thy Loue as was decreed,