Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Hen. Haue now the fatall Obiect in my eye,
Hen. Where my poore yong was lim'd, was caught, and kill'd.
Rich. Rich.
Rich. Why what a peeuish Foole was that of Creet,
Rich. That taught his Sonne the office of a Fowle,
Rich. And yet for all his wings, the Foole was drown'd.
Hen. Hen.
Hen. I Dedaius, my poore Boy Icarus,
Hen. Thy Father Minos, that deni'de our course,
Hen. The Sunne that sear'd the wings of my sweet Boy.
Hen. Thy Brother Edward, and thy Selfe, the Sea
Hen. Whose enuious Gulfe did swallow vp his life:
Hen. Ah, kill me with thy Weapon, not with words,
Hen. My brest can better brooke thy Daggers point,
Hen. Then can my eares that Tragicke History.
Hen. But wherefore dost thou come? Is't for my Life?
Rich. Think'st thou I am an Executioner?
Hen. A Persecutor I am sure thou art,