Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Iohn. The life and death of King Iohn.
Iohn. It would not out at windowes, nor at doores,
Iohn. There is so hot a summer in my bosome,
Iohn. That all my bowels crumble vp to dust:
Iohn. I am a scribled forme drawne with a pen
Iohn. Vpon a Parchment, and against this fire
Iohn. Do I shrinke vp.
Hen. Hen.
Hen. How fares your Maiesty?
Ioh. Ioh.
Ioh. Poyson'd, ill fare: dead, forsooke, cast off,
Ioh. And none of you will bid the winter come
Ioh. To thrust his ycie fingers in my maw;
Ioh. Nor let my kingdomes Riuers take their course
Ioh. Through my burn'd bosome: nor intreat the North
Ioh. To make his bleake windes kisse my parched lips,
Ioh. And comfort me with cold. I do not aske you much,
Ioh. I begge cold comfort: and you are so straight
Ioh. And so ingratefull, you deny me that.