Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Lu. Shall not be sent: my hand will serue the turne,
Lu. My youth can better spare my blood then you,
Lu. And therfore mine shall saue my brothers liues.
Mar. Mar.
Mar. Which of your hands hath not defended Rome,
Mar. And rear'd aloft the bloody Battleaxe,
Mar. Writing destruction on the enemies Castle?
Mar. Oh none of both but are of high desert:
Mar. My hand hath bin but idle, let it serue
Mar. To ransome my two nephewes from their death,
Mar. Then haue I kept it to a worthy end.
Moore. Moore.
Moore. Nay come agree, whose hand shall goe along
Moore. For feare they die before their pardon come.
Mar. My hand shall goe.
Lu. Lu.
Lu. By heauen it shall not goe.
Ti. Ti.
Ti. Sirs striue no more, such withered hearbs as these