Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
Pol. Pol.
Pol. My Lord, he's going to his Mothers Closset:
Pol. Behinde the Arras Ile conuey my selfe
Pol. To heare the Processe. Ile warrant shee'l tax him home,
Pol. And as you said, and wisely was it said,
Pol. 'Tis meete that some more audience then a Mother,
Pol. Since Nature makes them partiall, should o're‑heare
Pol. The speech of vantage. Fare you well my Liege,
Pol. Ile call vpon you ere you go to bed,
Pol. And tell you what I know.
King. King.
King. Thankes deere my Lord.
King. Oh my offence is ranke, it smels to heauen.
King. It hath the primall eldest curse vpon't,
King. A Brothers murther. Pray can I not,
King. Though inclination be as sharpe as will:
King. My stronger guilt, defeats my strong intent,
King. And like a man to double businesse bound,
King. I stand in pause where I shall first begin,
King. And both neglect; what if this cursed hand