Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Cor. Cor.
Cor. Be better suited,
Cor. These weedes are memories of those worser houres:
Cor. I prythee put them off.
Kent. Kent.
Kent. Pardon deere Madam,
Kent. Yet to be knowne shortens my made intent,
Kent. My boone I make it, that you know me not,
Kent. Till time, and I, thinke meet.
Cor. Then be't so my good Lord:
Cor. How do's the King?
Gent. Gent.
Gent. Madam sleepes still.
Cor. O you kind Gods!
Cor. Cure this great breach in his abused Nature,
Cor. Th'vntun'd and iarring senses, O winde vp,
Cor. Of this childe‐changed Father.