Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Ros. Why writes she so to me? well Shepheard, well,
Ros. This is a Letter of your owne deuice.
Sil. Sil.
Sil. No, I protest, I know not the contents,
Sil. Phebe did write it.
Ros. Ros.
Ros. Come, come, you are a foole,
Ros. And turn'd into the extremity of loue.
Ros. I saw her hand, she has a leatherne hand,
Ros. A freestone coloured hand: I verily did thinke
Ros. That her old gloues were on, but twas her hands:
Ros. She has a huswiues hand, but that's no matter:
Ros. I say she neuer did inuent this letter,
Ros. This is a mans inuention, and his hand.
Sil. Sure it is hers.
Ros. Why, tis a boysterous and a cruell stile,
Ros. A stile for challengers: why, she defies me,
Ros. Like Turke to Christian: vvomens gentle braine