Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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West. West.
West. I pledge your Grace:
West. And if you knew what paines I haue bestow'd,
West. To breede this present Peace,
West. You would drinke freely: but my loue to ye,
West. Shall shew it selfe more openly hereafter.
Bish. Bish.
Bish. I doe not doubt you.
West. I am glad of it.
West. Health to my Lord, and gentle Cousin Mowbray.
Mow. Mow.
Mow. You wish me health in very happy season,
Mow. For I am, on the sodaine, something ill.
Bish. Against ill Chances, men are euer merry,
Bish. But heauinesse fore‑runnes the good euent.
West. Therefore be merry (Cooze) since sodaine sorrow
West. Serues to say thus: some good thing comes to morrow.