Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
Cran. Lay all the weight ye can vpon my patience,
Cran. I make as little doubt as you doe conscience,
Cran. In doing dayly wrongs. I could say more,
Cran. But reuerence to your calling, makes me modest.
Gard. Gard.
Gard. My Lord, my Lord, you are a Sectary,
Gard. That's the plaine truth; your painted glosse discouers
Gard. To men that vnderstand you, words and weaknesse.
Crom. Crom.
Crom. My Lord of Winchester, y'are a little,
Crom. By your good fauour, too sharpe; Men of Noble,
Crom. How euer faultly, yet should finde respect
Crom. For what they haue beene: 'tis a cruelty,
Crom. To load a falling man.
Gard. Good M. Master Secretary,
Gard. I cry your Honour mercie; you may worst
Gard. Of all this Table say so.
Crom. Why my Lord?