Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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King. A thing deuised by the Enemy.
King. Go Gentlemen, euery man to his Charge,
King. Let not our babling Dreames affright our soules:
King. For Conscience is a word that Cowards vse,
King. Deuis'd at first to keepe the strong in awe,
King. Our strong armes be our Conscience, Swords our Law.
King. March on, ioyne brauely, let vs too't pell mell,
King. If not to heauen, then hand in hand to Hell.
King. What shall I say more then I haue inferr'd?
King. Remember whom you are to cope withall,
King. A sort of Vagabonds, Rascals, and Run‑awayes,
King. A scum of Brittaines, and base Lackey Pezants,
King. Whom their o're‑cloyed Country vomits forth
King. To desperate Aduentures, and assur'd Destruction.
King. You sleeping safe, they bring you to vnrest:
King. You hauing Lands, and blest with beauteous wiues,
King. They would restraine the one, distaine the other,
King. And who doth leade them, but a paltry Fellow?
King. Long kept in Britaine at our Mothers cost,
King. A Milke‑sop, one that neuer in his life