Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Mer. That presses them, and learnes them first to beare,
Mer. Making them women of good carriage:
Mer. This is she.
Rom. Rom.
Rom. Peace, peace, Mercutio peace,
Rom. Thou talk'st of nothing.
Mer. Mer.
Mer. True, I talke of dreames:
Mer. Which are the children of an idle braine,
Mer. Begot of nothing, but vaine phantasie,
Mer. Which is as thin of substance as the ayre,
Mer. And more inconstant then the wind, who wooes
Mer. Euen now the frozen bosome of the North:
Mer. And being anger'd, puffes away from thence,
Mer. Turning his side to the dew dropping South.
Ben. Ben.
Ben. This wind you talke of blowes vs from our selues,
Ben. Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
Rom. I feare too early, for my mind misgiues,