Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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King. For this, they haue beene thoughtfull, to invest
King. Their Sonnes with Arts, and Martiall Exercises:
King. When, like the Bee, culling from every flower
King. The vertuous Sweetes, our Thighes packt with Wax,
King. Our Mouthes with Honey, wee bring it to the Hiue;
King. And like the Bees, are murthered for our paines.
King. This bitter taste yeelds his engrossements,
King. To the ending Father.
King. Enter Warwicke.
King. Now, where is hee, that will not stay so long,
King. Till his Friend Sicknesse hath determin'd me?
War. War.
War. My Lord, I found the Prince in the next Roome,
War. Washing with kindly Teares his gentle Cheekes,
War. With such a deepe demeanure, in great sorrow,
War. That Tyranny, which neuer quafft but blood,
War. Would (by beholding him) haue wash'd his Knife
War. With gentle eye‑drops. Hee is comming hither.
King. King.
King. But wherefore did hee take away the Crowne?