Reading The life and death of King Iohn — William Shakespeare

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Section 616

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Ioh.

Poyson'd, ill fare: dead, forsooke, cast off,

And none of you will bid the winter come

To thrust his ycie fingers in my maw;

Nor let my kingdomes Riuers take their course

Through my burn'd bosome: nor intreat the North

To make his bleake windes kisse my parched lips,

And comfort me with cold. I do not aske you much,

I begge cold comfort: and you are so straight

And so ingratefull, you deny me that.

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