Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
King. My sleepe, my death? finde him (my Lord of Warwick)
King. Chide him hither: this part of his conioynes
King. With my disease, and helpes to end me.
King. See Sonnes, what things you are;
King. How quickly Nature falls into reuolt,
King. When Gold becomes her Object?
King. For this, the foolish ouer‑carefull Fathers
King. Haue broke their sleepes with thoughts,
King. Their braines with care, their bones with industry.
King. For this, they, haue ingrossed and pyl'd vp
King. The canker'd heapes of strange‑atchieued Gold:
King. For this, they haue beene thoughtfull, to invest
King. Their Sonnes with Arts, and Martiall Exercises:
King. When, like the Bee, culling from every flower
King. The vertuous Sweetes, our Thighes packt with Wax,
King. Our Mouthes with Honey, wee bring it to the Hiue;
King. And like the Bees, are murthered for our paines.
King. This bitter taste yeelds his engrossements,
King. To the ending Father.
King. Enter Warwicke.