Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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King. Killing in relapse of Mortalitie.
King. Let me speake prowdly: Tell the Constable,
King. We are but Warriors for the working day:
King. Our Gaynesse and our Gilt are all besmyrcht
King. With raynie Marching in the painefull field.
King. There's not a piece of feather in our Hoast:
King. Good argument (I hope) we will not flye:
King. And time hath worne vs into slouenrie.
King. But by the Masse, our hearts are in the trim:
King. And my poore Souldiers tell me, yet ere Night,
King. They'le be in fresher Robes, or they will pluck
King. The gay new Coats o're the French Souldiers heads,
King. And turne them out of seruice. If they doe this,
King. As if God please, they shall; my Ransome then
King. Will soone be leuyed.
King. Herauld, saue thou thy labour:
King. Come thou no more for Ransome, gentle Herauld,
King. They shall haue none, I sweare, but these my ioynts:
King. Which if they haue, as I will leaue vm them,
King. Shall yeeld them little, tell the Constable.