Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Macd. Macd.
Macd. And all my Children?
Rosse. Rosse.
Rosse. Well too.
Macd. The Tyrant ha's not batter'd at their peace?
Rosse. No, they were wel at peace, when I did leaue 'em
Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech: How gos't?
Rosse. When I came hither to transport the Tydings
Rosse. Which I haue heauily borne, there ran a Rumour
Rosse. Of many worthy Fellowes, that were out,
Rosse. Which was to my beleefe witnest the rather,
Rosse. For that I saw the Tyrants Power a‑foot.
Rosse. Now is the time of helpe: your eye in Scotland
Rosse. Would create Soldiours, make our women fight,
Rosse. To doffe their dire distresses.
Malc. Malc.