Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Bul. Bul.
Bul. My heart will sigh, when I miscall it so,
Bul. Which findes it an inforced Pilgrimage.
Gau. Gau.
Gau. The sullen passage of thy weary steppes
Gau. Esteeme a soyle, wherein thou art to set
Gau. The precious Iewell of thy home returne.
Bul. Oh who can hold a fire in his hand
Bul. By thinking on the froste Caucasus?
Bul. Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,
Bul. by bare imagination of a Feast?
Bul. Or Wallow naked in December snow
Bul. by thinking on fantasticke summers heate?
Bul. Oh no, the apprehension of the good
Bul. Giues but the greater feeling to the worse:
Bul. Fell sorrowes tooth, doth euer ranckle more
Bul. Then when it bites, but lanceth not the sore.
Gau. Come, come (my son) Ile bring thee on thy way