Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Gaunt. Who when they see the houres ripe on earth,
Gaunt. Will raigne hot vengeance on offenders heads.
Dut. Dut.
Dut. Findes brotherhood in thee no sharper spurre?
Dut. Hath loue in thy old blood no liuing fire?
Dut. Edwards seuen sonnes (whereof thy selfe art one)
Dut. Were as seuen violles of his Sacred blood,
Dut. Or seuen faire branches springing from one roote:
Dut. Some of those seuen are dride by natures course,
Dut. Some of those branches by the destinies cut:
Dut. But Thomas, my deere Lord, my life, my Glouster,
Dut. One Violl full of Edwards Sacred blood,
Dut. One flourishing branch of his most Royall roote
Dut. Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt;
Dut. Is hackt downe, and his summer leafes all vaded
Dut. By Enuies hand, and Murdes bloody Axe.
Dut. Ah Gaunt! His blood was thine, that bed, that wombe,
Dut. That mettle, that selfe‑mould that fashion'd thee,
Dut. Made him a man: and though thou liu'st, and breath'st,
Dut. Yet art thou slaine in him: thou dost consent