Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Rich. That Anne, my Queene, is sicke, and like to dye.
Rich. About it, for it stands me much vpon
Rich. To stop all hopes, whose growth may dammage me.
Rich. I must be marryed to my Brothers Daughter,
Rich. Or else my Kingdome stands on brittle Glasse:
Rich. Murther her Brothers, and then marry her,
Rich. Vncertaine way of gaine. But I am in
Rich. So farre in blood, that sinne will pluck on sinne,
Rich. Teare‑falling Pittie dwells not in this Eye.
Rich. Enter Tyrrel.
Rich. Is thy Name Tyrrel?
Tyr. Tyr.
Tyr. Iames Tyrrel, and your most obedient subiect.
Rich. Rich.
Rich. Art thou indeed?
Tyr. Proue me, my gracious Lord.
Rich. Dar'st thou resolue to kill a friend of mine?