Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Her. His folly Helena is none of mine.
Hel. Hel.
Hel. None but your beauty, wold that fault wer mine
Her. Her.
Her. Take comfort: he no more shall see my face,
Her. Lysander and my selfe will flie this place.
Her. Before the time I did Lysander see,
Her. Seem'd Athens like a Paradise to mee.
Her. O
Her. A Midsommer nights Dreame.
Her. O then, what graces in my Loue do dwell,
Her. That he hath turn'd a heauen into hell.
Lys. Lys.
Lys. Helen, to you our mindes we will vnfold,
Lys. To morrow night, when Phoebe doth behold
Lys. Her siluer visage, in the watry glasse,
Lys. Decking with liquid pearle, the bladed grasse
Lys. (A time that Louers flights doth still conceale)
Lys. Through Athens gates, haue we deuis'd to steale.