Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Poet. Make Sacred euen his styrrop, and through him
Poet. Drinke the free Ayre.
Pain. Pain.
Pain. I marry, what of these?
Poet. Poet.
Poet. When Fortune in her shift and change of mood
Poet. Spurnes downe her late beloued; all his Dependants
Poet. Which labour'd after him to the Mountaines top,
Poet. Euen on their knees and hand, let him sit downe,
Poet. Not one accompanying his declining foot.
Pain. Tis common:
Pain. A thousand morall Paintings I can shew,
Pain. That shall demonstrate these quicke blowes of Fortunes,
Pain. More pregnantly then words. Yet you do well,
Pain. To shew Lord Timon, that meane eyes haue seene
Pain. The foot aboue the head.
Pain. Trumpets sound.
Pain. Enter Lord Timon, addressing himselfe curteously
Pain. to euery Sutor.