Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Bast. Who hauing no externall thing to loose,
Bast. But the word Maid, cheats the poore Maide of that.
Bast. That smooth‑fac'd Gentleman, tickling commoditie,
Bast. Commoditie, the byas of the world,
Bast. The world, who of it selfe is peysed well,
Bast. Made to run euen, vpon euen ground:
Bast. Till this aduantage, this vile drawing byas,
Bast. This sway of motion, this commoditie,
Bast. Makes it take head from all indifferency,
Bast. From all direction, purpose, course, intent.
Bast. And this same byas, this Commoditie,
Bast. This Bawd, this Broker, this all‑changing‑word,
Bast. Clap'd on the outward eye of fickle France,
Bast. Hath drawne him from his owne determin'd ayd,
Bast. From a resolu'd and honourable warre,
Bast. To a most base and vile‑concluded peace.
Bast. And why rayle I on this Commoditie?
Bast. But for because he hath not wooed me yet:
Bast. Not that I haue the power to clutch my hand,
Bast. When his faire Angels would salute my palme,