Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Bel. I thanke you: by yond bush? pray how farre thether?
Bel. 'Ods pittikins: can it be sixe mile yet?
Bel. I haue gone all night: 'Faith, Ile lye downe, and sleepe.
Bel. But soft; no Bedfellow? Oh Gods, and Goddesses!
Bel. These Flowres are like the pleasures of the World;
Bel. This bloody man the care on't. I hope I dreame:
Bel. For so I thought I was a Caue‑keeper,
Bel. And Cooke to honest Creatures. But 'tis not so:
Bel. 'Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot of nothing,
Bel. Which the Braine makes of Fumes. Our very eyes,
Bel. Are sometimes like our Iudgements, blinde. Good faith
Bel. I tremble still with feare: but if there be
Bel. Yet left in Heauen, as small a drop of pittie
Bel. As a Wrens eye; fear'd Gods, a part of it.
Bel. The Dreame's heere still: euen when I wake it is
Bel. Without me, as within me: not imagin'd, felt.
Bel. A headlesse man? The Garments of Posthumus?
Bel. I know the shape of's Legge: this is his Hand:
Bel. His Foote Mercuriall: his martiall Thigh
Bel. The brawnes of Hercules: but his Iouiall face⸺