Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Mar. Would the Nobility lay aside their ruth,
Mar. And let me vse my Sword, I'de make a Quarrie
Mar. With thousands of these quarter'd slaues, as high
Mar. As I could picke my Lance.
Menen. Menen.
Menen. Nay these are almost thoroughly perswaded:
Menen. For though abundantly they lacke discretion
Menen. Yet are they passing Cowardly. But I beseech you,
Menen. What sayes the other Troope?
Mar. Mar.
Mar. They are dissolu'd: Hang em;
Mar. They said they were an hungry, sigh'd forth Prouerbes
Mar. That Hunger‑broke stone wals: that dogges must eate
Mar. That meate was made for mouths. That the gods sent not
Mar. Corne for the Richmen onely: With these shreds
Mar. They vented their Complainings, which being answer'd
Mar. And a petition granted them, a strange one,
Mar. To breake the heart of generosity,
Mar. And make bold power looke pale, they threw their caps
Mar. As they would hang them on the hornes a'th Moone,