Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Iras. Royall Egypt: Empresse.
Char. Char.
Char. Peace, peace, Iras.
Cleo. Cleo.
Cleo. No more but in a Woman, and commanded
Cleo. By such poore passion, as the Maid that Milkes,
Cleo. And doe's the meanest chares. It were for me,
Cleo. To throw my Scepter at the iniurious Gods,
Cleo. To tell them that this World did equall theyrs,
Cleo. Till they had stolne our Iewell. All's but naught:
Cleo. Patience is sottish, and impatience does
Cleo. Become a Dogge that's mad: Then is it sinne,
Cleo. To rush into the secret house of death,
Cleo. Ere death dare come to vs. How do you Women?
Cleo. What, what good cheere? Why how now Charmian?
Cleo. My Noble Gyrles? Ah Women, women! Looke
Cleo. Our Lampe is spent, it's out. Good sirs, take heart,
Cleo. Wee'l bury him: And then, what's braue, what's Noble,
Cleo. Let's doo't after the high Roman fashion,
Cleo. And make death proud to take vs. Come, away,