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arms art thou Aumerle Bard Bardolph Bast Bishop of Carlisle blood Boling Bolingbroke breath brother Colevile Const cousin crown dead death doth Duch duke duke of Hereford earl Eastcheap England Exeunt Exit eyes fair Falstaff father Faulconbridge fear France friends Gaunt give Glend Glendower grace grief hand Harry Harry Percy hath head hear heart heaven honour horse Host Hotspur Hubert John of Gaunt Johnson King Henry King John King Richard Lady Lancaster land liege look lord majesty master never night noble Northumberland pardon peace Percy Pist play Poins pray prince Prince John prince of Wales Queen Rich royal SCENE Shakspeare Shal Shallow shame sir John sir John FalstafF soul speak stand sweet sword tell thee thine thou art thou hast tongue true uncle villain Westmoreland wilt word York
Page 313 - tis no matter ; honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on ? how then ? Can honour set to a leg ? No. Or an arm ? No. Or take away the grief of a wound ? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery, then ? No. What is honour ? A word. What is in that word, honour ? What is that honour ? Air 4. A trim reckoning! — Who hath it? He that died o
Page 385 - With deafning clamours in the slippery clouds, That, with the hurly," death itself awakes ? Can'st thou, O partial sleep ! give thy repose To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude ; And in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king?
Page 163 - And that small model of the barren earth, Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings : — How some have been depos'd, some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd ; Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd ; All murder'd : — For within the hollow crown, That rounds the mortal temples of a king, Keeps death his court : and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state, and grinning...
Page 385 - How many thousand of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep ! O Sleep, O gentle Sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down.
Page 228 - My liege, I did deny no prisoners. But, I remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly...
Page 64 - For heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound ! Nay, hear me, Hubert ! drive these men away, And I will sit as quiet as a lamb ; I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, Nor look upon the iron angerly : Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you, Whatever torment you do put me to.
Page 226 - And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents. So, when this loose behaviour I throw off, And pay the debt I never promised, By how much better than my word I am, By so much shall I falsify men's hopes ; And, like bright metal on a sullen ground, My reformation, glittering o'er my fault, Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes Than that which hath no foil to set it off.
Page 195 - And thus still doing, thus he passed along. Duch. Alas, poor Richard ! where rode he the whilst ? York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men, After a well-graced actor leaves the stage, Are idly bent on him that enters next, Thinking his prattle to be tedious ; Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes Did scowl on Richard ; no man cried, God save him...
Page 260 - Should I turn upon the true prince ? Why, thou knowest, I am as valiant as Hercules: but beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter ; I was a coward on instinct.
Page 226 - I'll sup. Farewell. Poins. Farewell, my lord. [Exit POINS. P. Hen. I know you all, and will a while uphold The unyok'd humour of your idleness : Yet herein will I imitate the sun ; Who doth permit the base contagious clouds To smother up his beauty from the world, That, when he please again to be himself, Being wanted, he may be more wonder'd at, By breaking through the foul and ugly mists Of vapours, that did seem to strangle him.
sciencedirect - The Lancet : Thomas Bowdler: censor ...
Lynch, "What's in a Name?"