Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Rosse. Ha, good Father,
Rosse. Thou seest the Heauens, as troubled with mans Act,
Rosse. Threatens his bloody Stage: byth'Clock 'tis Day,
Rosse. And yet darke Night strangles the trauailing Lampe:
Rosse. Is't Nights predominance, or the Dayes shame,
Rosse. That Darknesse does the face of Earth intombe,
Rosse. When liuing Light should kisse it?
Old man. Old man.
Old man. 'Tis vnnaturall,
Old man. Euen like the deed that's done: On Tuesday last,
Old man. A Faulcon towring in her pride of place,
Old man. Was by a Mowsing Owle hawkt at, and kill'd.
Rosse. Rosse.
Rosse. And Duncans Horses,
Rosse. (A thing most strange, and certaine)
Rosse. Beauteous, and swift, the Minions of their Race,
Rosse. Turn'd wilde in nature, broke their stalls, flong out,
Rosse. Contending 'gainst Obedience, as they would
Rosse. Make Warre with Mankinde.