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answer appears arms bear better blood body bring brother CADE cause comes crown daughter dead death doth duke Edward England English Enter Exeunt Exit eyes face fair faith father fear fight folio follow fool Forces fortune France French friends give grace hand hast hath head hear heart heaven Henry highness hold honour hope I'll John keep king knight lady leave live look lord master means mind nature never noble Old copies Old text once peace play poor pray present prince queen rest Richard SCENE soldiers soul speak stand stay sweet sword Talbot tell thank thee thing thou thou art thought TOUCH true unto Warwick York
Página 116 - With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side'; His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound : Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ; Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.
Página 54 - Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart ; his passport shall be made And crowns for convoy put into his purse : We would not die in that man's company That fears his fellowship to die with us.
Página 104 - The seasons' difference ; as, the icy fang, And churlish chiding of the winter's wind; Which when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say, — This is no flattery: these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Página 116 - Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard. Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon...
Página 232 - If music be the food of love, play on ; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die. That strain again ! it had a dying fall : O ! it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour.
Página 253 - O fellow, come, the song we had last night: — Mark it, Cesario; it is old and plain: The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids, that weave their thread with bones. Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love Like the old age.
Página 488 - God ! methinks , it were a happy life , To be no better than a homely swain ; To sit upon a hill , as I do now , To carve out dials quaintly , point by point , Thereby to see the minutes how they run : How many make the hour full complete , How many hours bring about the day , How many days will finish up the year , How many years a mortal man may live. When this is known , then to divide the times : So many hours must I tend my flock ; So many hours must I take my rest ; So many hours must I contemplate;...
Página 437 - I am the besom that must sweep the court clean of such filth as thou art. Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm; in erecting a grammar-school : and whereas, before, our forefathers had no other books but the score and the tally, thou hast caused printing to be used ; and, contrary to the king, his crown and dignity, thou hast built a paper-mill.
Página 29 - That those, whom you call'd fathers, did beget you! Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war! — And you, good yeomen, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding : which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot; Follow your spirit: and, upon this charge,...
Página 103 - Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, — The seasons' difference : as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, Which when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say, This is no flattery : these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am.