Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Rich. This Prison where I liue, vnto the World:
Rich. And for because the world is populous,
Rich. And heere is not a Creature, but my selfe,
Rich. I cannot do it: yet Ile hammer't out.
Rich. My Braine, Ile proue the Female to my Soule,
Rich. My Soule, the Father: and these two beget
Rich. A generation of still breeding Thoughts;
Rich. And these same Thoughts, people this Little World
Rich. In humors, like the people of this world,
Rich. For no thought is contented. The better sort,
Rich. As thoughts of things Diuine, are intermixt
Rich. With scruples, and do set the Faith it selfe
Rich. Against the Faith: as thus: Come litle ones: & then again,
Rich. It is as hard to come, as for a Camell
Rich. To thred the posterne of a Needles eye.
Rich. Thoughts tending to Ambition, they do plot
Rich. Vnlikely wonders; how these vaine weake nailes
Rich. May teare a passage through the Flinty ribbes
Rich. Of this hard world, my ragged prison walles:
Rich. And for they cannot, dye in their owne pride.