Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Rich. A King of Beasts indeed: if aught but Beasts,
Rich. I had beene still a happy King of Men.
Rich. Good (sometime Queene) prepare thee hence for France:
Rich. Thinke I am dead, and that euen here thou tak'st,
Rich. As from my Death‑bed, my last liuing leaue.
Rich. In Winters tedious Nights sit by the fire
Rich. With good old folkes, and let them tell thee Tales
Rich. Of wofull Ages, long agoe betide:
Rich. And ere thou bid good‑night, to quit their griefe,
Rich. Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,
Rich. And send the hearers weeping to their Beds:
Rich. For why? the sencelesse Brands will sympathize
Rich. The heauie accent of thy mouing Tongue,
Rich. And in compassion, weepe the fire out:
Rich. And some will mourne in ashes, some coale‑black,
Rich. For the deposing of a rightfull King.
Rich. Enter Northumberland.
North. North.
North. My Lord, the mind of Bullingbrooke is chang'd.
North. You must to Pomfret, not vnto the Tower.