Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
Bish. Wherefore doe I this? so the Question stands.
Bish. Briefely to this end: Wee are all diseas'd,
Bish. And with our surfetting and wanton howres,
Bish. Haue brought our selues into a burning Feuer,
Bish. And wee must bleede for it: of which Disease,
Bish. Our late King Richard (being infected) dy'd.
Bish. But (my most Noble Lord of Westmerland)
Bish. I take not on me here as a Physician,
Bish. Nor doe I, as an Enemie to Peace,
Bish. Troope in the Throngs of Militarie men:
Bish. But rather shew a while like fearefull Warre,
Bish. To dyet ranke Mindes, sicke of happinesse,
Bish. And purge th'obstructions, which begin to stop
Bish. Our very Veines of Life: heare me more plainely.
Bish. I haue in equall balance iustly weigh'd,
Bish. What wrongs our Arms may do, what wrongs we suffer,
Bish. And finde our Griefes heauier then our Offences.
Bish. Wee see which way the streame of Time doth runne,
Bish. And are enforc'd from our most quiet there,
Bish. By the rough Torrent of Occasion,