Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Queene. I giue thee this to drie thy Cheekes withall.
Queene. Alas poore Yorke, but that I hate thee deadly,
Queene. I should lament thy miserable state.
Queene. I prythee grieue, to make me merry, Yorke.
Queene. What, hath thy fierie heart so parcht thine entrayles,
Queene. That not a Teare can fall, for Rutlands death?
Queene. Why art thou patient, man? thou should'st be mad:
Queene. And I, to make thee mad, doe mock thee thus.
Queene. Stampe, raue, and fret, that I may sing and dance.
Queene. Thou would'st be fee'd, I see, to make me sport:
Queene. Yorke cannot speake, vnlesse he weare a Crowne.
Queene. A Crowne for Yorke; and Lords, bow lowe to him:
Queene. Hold you his hands, whilest I doe set it on.
Queene. I marry Sir, now lookes he like a King:
Queene. I, this is he that tooke King Henries Chaire,
Queene. And this is he was his adopted Heire.
Queene. But how is it, that great Plantagenet
Queene. Is crown'd so soone, and broke his solemne Oath?
Queene. As I bethinke me, you should not be King,
Queene. Till our King Henry had shooke hands with Death.