Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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King. And rotten Times, that you shall looke vpon,
King. When I am sleeping with my Ancestors.
King. For when his head‑strong Riot hath no Curbe,
King. When Rage and hot‑Blood are his Counsailors,
King. When Meanes and lauish Manners meete together;
King. Oh, with what Wings shall his Affections flye
King. Towards fronting Perill, and oppos'd Decay?
War. War.
War. My gracious Lord, you looke beyond him quite:
War. The Prince but studies his Companions,
War. Like a strange Tongue: wherein, to gaine the Language,
War. 'Tis needful, that the most immodest word
War. Be look'd vpon, and learn'd: which once attayn'd,
War. Your Highnesse knowes, comes to no farther vse,
War. But to be knowne, and hated. So, like grosse termes,
War. The Prince will, in the perfectnesse of time,
War. Cast off his followers: and their memorie
War. Shall as a Patterne, or a Measure, liue,
War. By which his Grace must mete the liues of others,
War. Turning past‑euills to aduantages.