Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Salar. And euery obiect that might make me feare
Salar. Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt
Salar. Would make me sad.
Sal. Sal.
Sal. My winde cooling my broth,
Sal. Would blow me to an Ague, when I thought
Sal. What harme a winde too great might doe at sea.
Sal. I should not see the sandie houre‑glasse runne,
Sal. But I should thinke of shallows, and of flats,
Sal. And see my wealthy Andrew docks in sand,
Sal. Vailing her high top lower then her ribs
Sal. To kisse her buriall; should I goe to Church
Sal. And see the holy edifice of stone,
Sal. And not bethinke me straight of dangerous rocks,
Sal. Which touching but my gentle Vessels side
Sal. Would scatter all her spices on the streame,
Sal. Enrobe the roring waters with my silkes,
Sal. And in a word, but euen now worth this,
Sal. And now worth nothing. Shall I haue the thought
Sal. To thinke on this, and shall I lacke the thought