Direct reading · Original
Section 285
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Mor.
O hell! what haue we here, a carrion death,
Within whose emptie eye there is a written scroule;
Ile reade the writing.
All that glisters is not gold,
Often haue you heard that told;
Many a man his life hath sold
But my outside to behold;
Guilded timber doe wormes infold:
Had you beene as wise as bold,
Yong in limbs, in
iudgement old,
Your answere had not beene inscrold,
Fareyouwell, your suite
is cold,