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Result number
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Work
The work is either a play, poem, or sonnet. The sonnets
are treated as single work with 154 parts.
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Character
Indicates who said the line. If it's a play or sonnet,
the character name is "Poet."
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Line
Shows where the line falls within the work.
The numbering is not keyed to any copyrighted numbering system found in a volume of
collected works (Arden, Oxford, etc.) The numbering starts at the beginning of the work, and does not
restart for each scene.
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Text
The line's full text, with keywords highlighted
within it, unless highlighting has been disabled by the user.
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1 |
Henry IV, Part II
[II, 1] |
Falstaff |
862 |
My lord, I will not undergo this sneap without reply.
call honourable boldness impudent sauciness; if a man will
curtsy and say nothing, he is virtuous. No, my lord, my
duty rememb'red, I will not be your suitor. I say to you I do
desire deliverance from these officers, being upon hasty
employment in the King's affairs.
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2 |
Henry IV, Part II
[II, 2] |
Edward Poins |
1036 |
Come, you virtuous ass, you bashful fool, must you be
blushing? Wherefore blush you now? What a maidenly
are you become! Is't such a matter to get a pottle-pot's
maidenhead?
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3 |
Henry IV, Part II
[II, 4] |
Henry V |
1594 |
YOU whoreson candle-mine, you, how vilely did you speak
me even now before this honest, virtuous, civil gentlewoman!
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4 |
Henry IV, Part II
[II, 4] |
Henry V |
1623 |
See now, whether pure fear and entire cowardice doth
make thee wrong this virtuous gentlewoman to close with us?
she of the wicked? Is thine hostess here of the wicked? Or is
boy of the wicked? Or honest Bardolph, whose zeal burns in
nose, of the wicked?
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5 |
Henry IV, Part II
[IV, 5] |
Henry IV |
2951 |
The Prince hath ta'en it hence. Go, seek him out.
Is he so hasty that he doth suppose
My sleep my death?
Find him, my lord of Warwick; chide him hither.
[Exit WARWICK]
This part of his conjoins with my disease
And helps to end me. See, sons, what things you are!
How quickly nature falls into revolt
When gold becomes her object!
For this the foolish over-careful fathers
Have broke their sleep with thoughts,
Their brains with care, their bones with industry;
For this they have engrossed and pil'd up
The cank'red heaps of strange-achieved gold;
For this they have been thoughtful to invest
Their sons with arts and martial exercises;
When, like the bee, tolling from every flower
The virtuous sweets,
Our thighs with wax, our mouths with honey pack'd,
We bring it to the hive, and, like the bees,
Are murd'red for our pains. This bitter taste
Yields his engrossments to the ending father.
[Re-enter WARWICK]
Now where is he that will not stay so long
Till his friend sickness hath determin'd me?
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