Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Bul. Your will be done: This must my comfort be,
Bul. That Sun that warmes you heere, shall shine on me:
Bul. And those his golden beames to you heere lent,
Bul. Shall point on me, and gild my banishment.
Rich. Rich.
Rich. Norfolke: for thee remaines a heauier dombe,
Rich. Which I with some vnwillingnesse pronounce,
Rich. The slye slow houres shall not determinate
Rich. The datelesse limit of thy deere exile:
Rich. The hopelesse word, of Neuer to returne,
Rich. Breath I against thee, vpon paine of life.
Mow. Mow.
Mow. A heauy sentence, my most Soueraigne Liege,
Mow. And all vnlook'd for from your Highnesse mouth:
Mow. A deerer merit, not so deepe a maime,
Mow. As to be cast forth in the common ayre
Mow. Haue I deserued at your Highnesse hands.
Mow. The Language I haue learn'd these forty yeares
Mow. (My natiue English) now I must forgo,
Mow. And now my tongues use is to me no more,