Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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King. Were thicker then it selfe with Brothers blood,
King. Is there not Raine enough in the sweet Heaues
King. To wash it white as Snow? Whereto serues mercy,
King. But to confront the visage of Offence?
King. And what's in Prayer, but this two‑fold force,
King. To be fore‑stalled ere we come to fall,
King. Or pardon'd being downe? Then Ile looke vp,
King. My fault is past. But oh, what forme of Prayer
King. Can serue my turne? Forgiue me my foule Murther:
King. That cannot be, since I am still possest
King. Of those effects for which I did the Murther.
King. My Crowne, mine owne Ambition, and my Queene:
King. May one be pardon'd, and retaine th'offence?
King. In the corrupted currants of this world,
King. Offences gilded hand may shoue by Iustice,
King. And oft 'tis seene, the wicked prize it selfe
King. Buyes out the Law; but 'tis not so aboue,
King. There is no shuffling, there the Action lyes
King. In his true Nature, and we our selues compell'd
King. Euen to the teeth and forehead of our faults,