Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Hen. Oh vanity of sicknesse: fierce extreames
Hen. In their continuance, will not feele themselues.
Hen. Death hauing praide vpon the outward parts
Hen. Leaues them inuisible, and his siege is now
Hen. Against the winde, the which he prickes and wounds
Hen. With many legions of strange fantasies,
Hen. Which in their throng, and presse to that last hold,
Hen. Counfound themselues. 'Tis strange yt death shold sing:
Hen. I am the Symet to this pale faint Swan,
Hen. Who chaunts a dolefull hymne to his owne death,
Hen. And from the organ‑pipe of frailety sings
Hen. His soule and body to their lasting rest.
Sal. Sal.
Sal. Be of good comfort (Prince) for you are borne
Sal. To set a forme vpon that indigest
Sal. Which he hath left so shapelesse, and so rude.
Sal. Iohn brought in.
Iohn. Iohn.
Iohn. I marrie, now my soule hath elbow roome,
Iohn. It