Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Hen. How fares your Maiesty?
Ioh. Ioh.
Ioh. Poyson'd, ill fare: dead, forsooke, cast off,
Ioh. And none of you will bid the winter come
Ioh. To thrust his ycie fingers in my maw;
Ioh. Nor let my kingdomes Riuers take their course
Ioh. Through my burn'd bosome: nor intreat the North
Ioh. To make his bleake windes kisse my parched lips,
Ioh. And comfort me with cold. I do not aske you much,
Ioh. I begge cold comfort: and you are so straight
Ioh. And so ingratefull, you deny me that.
Hen. Hen.
Hen. Oh that there were some vertue in my teares,
Hen. That might releeue you.
Iohn. Iohn.
Iohn. The salt in them is hot.
Iohn. Within me is a hell, and there the poyson
Iohn. Is, as a fiend, confin'd to tyrannize,
Iohn. On vnrepreeuable condemned blood.
Iohn. Enter Bastard.