Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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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,
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,