Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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P. Hen. Why doth the Crowne lye there, vpon his Pillow,
P. Hen. Being so troublesome a Bed‑fellow?
P. Hen. O pollish'd Perturbation! Golden Care!
P. Hen. That keep'st the Ports of Slumber open wide,
P. Hen. To many watchfull Night: sleepe with it now,
P. Hen. Yet not so sound, and halfe so deepely sweete,
P. Hen. As hee whose Brow (with homely Biggen bound)
P. Hen. Snores out Watch of Night. O Maiestie!
P. Hen. When thou do'st pinch thy Bearer, thou do'st sit:
P. Hen. Like a rich Armor, worne in heat of day,
P. Hen. That scald'st with safetie: by his Gates of breath,
P. Hen. There lyes a dowlney feather, which stirres not:
P. Hen. Did hee suspire, that light and weightlesse dowlne
P. Hen. Perforce must moue. My gracious Lord, my Father,
P. Hen. This sleepe is sound indeede: this is a sleepe,
P. Hen. That from this Golden Rigoll hath diuorc'd
P. Hen. So many English Kings. Thy due, from me,
P. Hen. Is Teares, and heauie sorrows of the Blood,
P. Hen. Which Nature, Loue, and filiall tendernesse,
P. Hen. Shall (O deare Father) pay thee plenteously.