Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
Yor. Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity,
Yor. So it be new, there's no respect how vile,
Yor. That is not quickly buz'd into his eares?
Yor. That all too late comes counsell to be heard,
Yor. Where will doth mutiny with wits regard:
Yor. Direct not him, whose way himselfe will choose,
Yor. Tis breath thou lackst, and that breath wilt thou loose.
Gaunt. Gaunt.
Gaunt. Me thinkes I am a Prophet new inspir'd,
Gaunt. And thus expiring, do foretell of him,
Gaunt. His rash fierce blaze of Ryot cannot last,
Gaunt. For violent fires soone burne out themselues,
Gaunt. Small showres last long, but sodaine stormes are short,
Gaunt. He tyres betimes, that spurs too fast betimes;
Gaunt. With eager feeding, food doth choake the feeder:
Gaunt. Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,
Gaunt. Consuming meanes soone preyes vpon it selfe.
Gaunt. This royall Throne of Kings, this sceptred Isle,
Gaunt. This earth of Maiesty, this seate of Mars,
Gaunt. This other Eden, demy paradise,