Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Mow. Then an vnstringed Vyall, or a Harpe,
Mow. Or like a cunning Instrument cas'd vp,
Mow. Or being open, put into his hands
Mow. That knowes no touch to tune the harmony.
Mow. Within my mouth you haue engaol'd my tongue,
Mow. Doubly percullist with my teeth and lippes,
Mow. And dull, vnfeeling, barren ignorance,
Mow. Is made my Gaoler to attend on me:
Mow. I am too old to fawne vpon a Nurse,
Mow. Too farre in yeeres to be a pupill now:
Mow. What is thy sentence then, but speechlesse death,
Mow. Which robs my tongue from breathing natiue breath?
Rich. Rich.
Rich. It boots thee not to be compassionate,
Rich. After our sentence, plaining comes too late.
Mow. Mow.
Mow. Then thus I turne me from my countries light
Mow. To dwell in solemne shades of endlesse night.
Ric. Ric.
Ric. Returne againe, and take an oath with thee,