Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
Post. Still going? This is a Lord: Oh Noble misery
Post. To be i'th'Field, and aske what newes of me:
Post. To day, how many would haue giuen their Honours
Post. To haue sau'd their Carkasses? Tooke heele to doo't,
Post. And yet dyed too. I, in mine owne woe charm'd
Post. Could not finde death, where I did heare him groane,
Post. Nor feele him where he strooke. Being an vgly Monster,
Post. 'Tis strange he hides him in fresh Cups, soft Beds,
Post. Sweet words; or hath moe ministers then we
Post. That draw his kniues i'th'War. Well I will finde him:
Post. For being now a Fauourer to the Britaine,
Post. No more a Britaine, I haue resum'd againe
Post. The part I came in. Fight I will no more,
Post. But yeeld me to the veriest Hinde, that shall
Post. Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is
Post. Heere made by'th'Romane; great the Answer be
Post. Britaines must take. For me, my Ransome's death,
Post. On eyther side I come to spend my breath;
Post. Which neyther heere Ile keepe, nor beare agen,
Post. But end it by some meanes for Imogen.