Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
Yor. As praises of his state: then there are sound
Yor. Lasciuious Meeters, to whose venom sound
Yor. The open eare of youth doth alwayes listen.
Yor. Report of fashions in proud Italy,
Yor. Whose manners still our tardie apish Nation
Yor. Limpes after in base imitation.
Yor. Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity,
Yor. So it be new, there's no respect how vile,
Yor. That is not quickly buz'd into his eares?
Yor. That all too late comes counsell to be heard,
Yor. Where will doth mutiny with wits regard:
Yor. Direct not him, whose way himselfe will choose,
Yor. Tis breath thou lackst, and that breath wilt thou loose.
Gaunt. Gaunt.
Gaunt. Me thinkes I am a Prophet new inspir'd,
Gaunt. And thus expiring, do foretell of him,
Gaunt. His rash fierce blaze of Ryot cannot last,
Gaunt. For violent fires soone burne out themselues,
Gaunt. Small showres last long, but sodaine stormes are short,
Gaunt. He tyres betimes, that spurs too fast betimes;