Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Hot. And that same Sword and Buckler Prince of Wales.
Hot. But that I thinke his Father loues him not,
Hot. And would be glad he met with some mischance,
Hot. I would haue poyson'd him with a pot of Ale.
Wor. Wor.
Wor. Farewell Kinsman: Ile talke to you
Wor. When you are better temper'd to attend.
Nor. Nor.
Nor. Why what a Waspe‑tongu'd & impatient foole
Nor. Art thou, to breake into this Womans mood,
Nor. Tying thine eare to no tongue but thine owne?
Hot. Hot.
Hot. Why look you, I am whipt & scourg'd with rods,
Hot. Netled, and stung with Pismires, when I heare
Hot. Of this vile Politician Bullingbrooke.
Hot. In Richards time: What de'ye call the place?
Hot. A plague vpon't, it is in Gloustershie:
Hot. 'Twas, where the madcap Duke his Vncle kept,
Hot. His Vncle Yorke, where I first bow'd my knee
Hot. Vnto this King of Smiles, this Bullingbrooke: