Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
War. 'Tis needful, that the most immodest word
War. Be look'd vpon, and learn'd: which once attayn'd,
War. Your Highnesse knowes, comes to no farther vse,
War. But to be knowne, and hated. So, like grosse termes,
War. The Prince will, in the perfectnesse of time,
War. Cast off his followers: and their memorie
War. Shall as a Patterne, or a Measure, liue,
War. By which his Grace must mete the liues of others,
War. Turning past‑euills to aduantages.
King. King.
King. 'Tis seldome, when the Bee doth leaue her Combe
King. In the dead Carrion.
King. Enter Westmerland.
King. Who's heere? Westmerland?
West. West.
West. Health to my Soueraigne, and new happinesse
West. Added to that, that I am to deliuer.
West. Prince Iohn, your Sonne, doth kisse your Graces Hand:
West. Mowbray, the Bishop, Scroope, Hastings, and all,
West. Are brought to the Correction of your Law.