Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Rom. Said he not so? Or did I dreame it so?
Rom. Or am I mad, hearing him talke of Iuliet,
Rom. To thinke it was so? O giue me thy hand,
Rom. One, writ with me in sowre misfortunes booke.
Rom. Ile burie thee in a triumphant graue.
Rom. A Graue; O no, a Lanthorne; slaughtred Youth:
Rom. For here lies Iuliet, and her beautie makes
Rom. This Vault a feasting presence full of light.
Rom. Death lie thou there, by a dead man inter'd.
Rom. How oft when men are at the point of death,
Rom. Haue they beene merrie? Which their Keepers call
Rom. A lightning before death? Oh how may I
Rom. Call this a lightning? O my Loue, my Wife,
Rom. Death that hath suckt the honey of thy breath,
Rom. Hath had no power yet vpon thy Beautie:
Rom. Thou are not conquer'd: Beauties ensigne yet
Rom. Is Crymson in thy lips, and in thy cheekes,
Rom. And Deaths pale flag is not aduanced there.
Rom. Tybalt, ly'st thou there in thy bloudy sheet?
Rom. O what more fauour can I do to thee,