Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Nor. Nor.
Nor. Reproach and dissolution hangeth ouer him.
Ros. Ros.
Ros. He hath not monie for these Irish warres:
Ros. (His burthenous taxations notwithstanding)
Ros. But by the robbing of the banish'd Duke.
Nor. His noble Kinsman, most degenerate King:
Nor. But Lords, we heare this fearefull tempest sing,
Nor. Yet seeke no shelter to auoid the storme:
Nor. We see the winde sit sore vpon our sailes,
Nor. And yet we strike not, but securely perish
Ros. We see the very wracke that we must suffer,
Ros. And vnauoyded is the danger now
Ros. For suffering so the causes of our wracke.
Nor. Not so: euen through the hollow eyes of death,
Nor. I spie life peering: but I dare not say
Nor. How neere the tidings of our comfort is.