Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Rich. Saue our deposed bodies to the ground?
Rich. Our Lands, our Liues, and all are Bullingbrookes,
Rich. And nothing can we call our owne, but Death,
Rich. And that small Modell of the barren Earth,
Rich. Which serves as Paste, and Couer to our Bones:
Rich. For Heauens sake let vs sit vpon the ground,
Rich. And tell sad stories of the death of Kings:
Rich. How some haue been depos'd, some slaine in warre,
Rich. Some haunted by the Ghosts they haue depos'd,
Rich. Some poyson'd by their Wiues, some sleeping kill'd,
Rich. All murther'd. For within the hollow Crowne
Rich. That rounds the mortall Temples of a King,
Rich. Keepes Death his Court, and there the Antique sits
Rich. Scoffing his State, and grinning at his Pompe,
Rich. Allowing him a breath, a little Scene,
Rich. To Monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with lookes,
Rich. Infusing him with selfe and vaine conceit,
Rich. As if this Flesh, which walls about our Life,
Rich. Were Brasse impregnable: and humor'd thus,
Rich. Comes at the last, and with a little Pinne