Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Ophe. So would I ha done by yonder Sunne,
Ophe. And thou hadst not come to my bed.
King. King.
King. How long hath she bin this?
Ophe. Ophe.
Ophe. I hope all will be well. We must bee patient,
Ophe. but I cannot choose but weepe, to thinke they should
Ophe. lay him i'th'cold ground: My brother shall knowe of it,
Ophe. and so I thanke you for your good counsell. Come, my
Ophe. Coach: Goodnight Ladies: Goodnight sweet Ladies:
Ophe. Goodnight, goodnight.
Ophe. Exit.
King. Follow her close,
King. Giue her good watch I pray you:
King. Oh this is the poyson of deepe greefe, it springs
King. All from her Fathers death. Oh Gertrude, Gertrude,
King. When sorrowes comes, they come not single spies,
King. But in Battaliaes. First, her Father slaine,
King. Next your Sonne gone, and he most violent Author