KING JOHN. Poison'd-ill-fare! Dead, forsook, cast off; And none of you will bid the winter come To thrust his icy fingers in my maw, Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course Through my burn'd bosom, nor entreat the north To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips And comfort me with cold. I do not ask you much; I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait And so ingrateful you deny me that.

Poison'd-Ill-Fare Dead Forsook Cast off

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1381
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