Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Wife. From whence himselfe do's flye? He loues vs not,
Wife. He wants the naturall touch. For the poore Wren
Wife. (The most diminitiue of Birds) will fight,
Wife. Her yong ones in her Nest, against the Owle:
Wife. All is the Feare, and nothing is the Loue;
Wife. As little is the Wisedome, where the flight
Wife. So runnes against all reason.
Rosse. Rosse.
Rosse. My deerest Cooz,
Rosse. I pray you schoole your selfe. But for your Husband,
Rosse. He is Noble, Wise, Iudicious, and best knowes
Rosse. The fits o'th'Season. I dare not speake much further,
Rosse. But cruell are the times, when we are Traitors
Rosse. And do not know our selues: when we hold Rumor
Rosse. From what we feare, yet know not what we feare,
Rosse. But floate vpon a wilde and violent Sea
Rosse. Each way, and moue. I take my leaue of you:
Rosse. Shall not be long but Ile be heere againe:
Rosse. Things at the worst will cease, or else climbe vpward,
Rosse. To what they were before. My pretty Cosine,