Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Paul. Woe the while:
Paul. O cut my Lace, least my heart (cracking it)
Paul. Breake too.
Lord. Lord.
Lord. What fit is this? good Lady?
Paul. Paul.
Paul. What studied torments (Tyrant) hast for me?
Paul. What Wheeles? Racks? Fires? What flaying? boyling?
Paul. In Leads, or Oyles? What old, or newer Torture
Paul. Must I receiue? whose euery word deserues
Paul. To taste of thy most worst. Thy Tyranny
Paul. (Together working with thy Iealousies,
Paul. Fancies too weake for Boyes, too greene and idle
Paul. For Girles of Nine) O thinke what they haue done,
Paul. And then run mad indeed: starke‑mad: for all
Paul. Thy by‑gone fooleries were but spices of it.
Paul. That thou betrayed’st Polixenes, 'twas nothing,
Paul. (That did but shew thee, of a Foole, inconstant,
Paul. And damnable ingratefull:) Nor was’t much.
Paul. Thou would’st haue poyson’d good Camillo’s Honor,