Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Mount. Mountioy.
King. King.
King. Thou doo'st thy Office fairely. Turne thee back,
King. And tell thy King, I doe not seeke him now,
King. But could be willing to march on to Callice,
King. Without impeachment: for to say the sooth,
King. Though 'tis no wisdome to confesse so much
King. Vnto an enemie of Craft and Vantage,
King. My people are with sicknesse much enfeebled,
King. My numbers lessen'd: and those few I haue,
King. Almost no better then so many French;
King. Who when they were in health, I tell thee Herald,
King. I thought, vpon one payre of English Legges
King. Did march three Frenchmen. Yet forgiue me God,
King. That I doe bragge thus; this your ayre of France
King. Hath blowne that vice in me. I must repent:
King. Goe therefore tell thy Master, heere I am;
King. My Ransome, is this frayle and worthlesse Trunke;
King. My Army, but a weake and sickly Guard:
King. Yet God before, tell him we will come on,