Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Ber. That kist away his hand in courtesie.
Ber. This is the Ape of Forme, Monsieur the nice,
Ber. That when he plaies at Tables, chides the Dice
Ber. In honorable tearmes: Nay he can sing
Ber. A meane most meanly, and in Vshering
Ber. Mend him who can: the Ladies call him sweete.
Ber. The staires as he treads on them kisse his feete.
Ber. This is the flower that smiles on euerie one,
Ber. To shew his teeth as white as Whales bone.
Ber. And consciences that wil not die in debt,
Ber. Pay him the dutie of honie‑tongued Boyet
King. King.
King. A blister on his sweet tongue with my hart,
King. That put Armathoes Page out of his part.
King. Enter the Ladies.
Ber. Ber.
Ber. See where it comes. Behauiour what wer't thou,
Ber. Till this madman shew'd thee? And what art thou now?
King. All haile sweet Madame, and faire time of day.