Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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King. Will it giue place to flexure and low bending?
King. Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggers knee,
King. Command the health of it? No, thou prowd Dreame,
King. That play'st so subtilly with a Kings Repose,
King. I am a King that find thee: and I know,
King. Tis not the Balme, the Scepter, and the Ball,
King. The Sword, the Mase, the Crowne Imperiall,
King. The enter-tissued Robe of Gold and Pearle,
King. The farsed Title running 'fore the King,
King. The Throne he sits on: nor the Tyde of Pompe,
King. That beates vpon the high shore of this World:
King. No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous Ceremonie;
King. Not all these, lay'd in Bed Maiesticall,
King. Can sleepe so soundly, as the wretched Slaue:
King. Who with a body fill'd, and vacant mind,
King. Gets him to rest, cram'd with distressefull bread,
King. Neuer sees horride Night, the Child of Hell:
King. But like a Lacquey, from the Rise to Set,
King. Sweates in the eye of Phebus; and all Night
King. Sleepes in Elizium: next day after dawne,