Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Rich. Pluck'd foure away: Six frozen Winters spent,
Rich. Returne with welcome home, from banishment.
Bul. Bul.
Bul. How long a time lyes in one little word:
Bul. Foure lagging Winters, and foure wanton springs
Bul. End in a word, such is the breath of Kings.
Gaunt. Gaunt.
Gaunt. I thanke my Liege, that in regard of me
Gaunt. He shortens foure years of my sonnes exile:
Gaunt. But little vantage shall I reape thereby.
Gaunt. For ere the sixe yeares that he hath to spend
Gaunt. Can change their Moones, and bring their times about,
Gaunt. My oyle‑dride Lampe, and time‑bewasted light
Gaunt. Shall be extinct with age, and endlesse night:
Gaunt. My inch of Taper, will be burnt, and done,
Gaunt. And blindfold death, not let me see my sonne.
Rich. Rich.
Rich. Why Vncle, thou hast many yeeres to liue.
Gaunt. But not a minute (King) that thou canst giue;