Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Clif. They neuer then had sprung like Sommer Flyes:
Clif. I, and ten thousand in this lucklesse Realme,
Clif. Hed left no mourning Widdowes for our death,
Clif. And thou this day, had'st kept thy Chaire in peace.
Clif. For what doth cherrish Weeds, but gentle ayre?
Clif. And what makes Robbers bold, but too much lenity?
Clif. Bootlesse are Plaints, and Curelesse are my Wounds:
Clif. No way to flye, nor strength to hold out flight:
Clif. The Foe is mercilesse, and will not pitty:
Clif. For at their hands I haue deseru'd no pitty.
Clif. The ayre hath got into my deadly Wounds,
Clif. And much effule of blood, doth make me faint:
Clif. Come Yorke, and Richard, Warwicke, and the rest,
Clif. I stab'd your Fathers bosomes; Split my brest.
Clif. Alarum & Retreat. Enter Edward, Warwicke, Richard, and
Clif. Soldiers, Montague, & Clarence.
Ed. Ed.
Ed. Now breath we Lords, good fortune bids vs pause,
Ed. And smooth the frownes of War, with peacefull lookes:
Ed. Some Troopes pursue the bloody‑minded Queene,