Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Ang. Ang.
Ang. You seem'd of late to make the Law a tirant,
Ang. And rather prou'd the sliding of your brother
Ang. A merriment, then a vice.
Isa. Isa.
Isa. Oh pardon me my Lord, it oft fals out
Isa. To haue, what we would haue,
Isa. We speake not what vve meane;
Isa. I something do excuse the thing I hate,
Isa. For his aduantage that I dearely loue.
Ang. We are all fraile.
Isa. Else let my brother die,
Isa. If not a fedarie but onely he
Isa. Owe, and succeed thy weaknesse.
Ang. Nay, women are fraile too.
Isa. I, as the glasses where they view themselues,