Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Lord. Since once he plaide a Farmers eldest sonne,
Lord. 'Twas where you woo'd the Gentlewoman so well:
Lord. I haue forgot your name: but sure that part
Lord. Was
Lord. The Taming of the Shrew.
Lord. Was aptly fitted, and naturally perform'd.
Sincklo. Sincklo.
Sincklo. I thinke 'twas Soto that your honor meanes.
Lord. Lord.
Lord. 'Tis verie true, thou didst it excellent:
Lord. Well you are come to me in happie time,
Lord. The rather for I haue some sport in hand,
Lord. Wherein your cunning can assist me much.
Lord. There is a Lord will heare you play to night;
Lord. But I am doubtfull of your modesties,
Lord. Least (ouer‑eying of his odde behauiour,
Lord. For yet his honor neuer heard a play)
Lord. You breake into some merrie passion,
Lord. And so offend him: for I tell you sirs,
Lord. If you should smile, he growes impatient.