Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Rich. Rich.
Rich. I, by my faith, for a poore Earle to giue,
Rich. Ile doe thee seruice for so good a gift.
War. War.
War. 'Twas I that gaue the Kingdome to thy Bro
War. ther.
Edw. Edw.
Edw. Why then 'tis mine, if but by Warwickes gift.
War. Thou art no Atlas for so great a Weight:
War. And Weakeling, Warwicke takes his gift againe,
War. And Henry is my King, Warwicke his Subiect.
Edw. But Warwickes King is Edwards Prisoner:
Edw. And gallant Warwicke, doe but answer this,
Edw. What is the Body, when the Head is off?
Rich. Alas, that Warwicke had no more fore‑cast,
Rich. But whiles he thought to steale the single Ten,
Rich. The King was slyly finger'd from the Deck: