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Alarum arms art thou blood brave brother Cade Clarence Clif Clifford crown Dauphin dead death doth duke of Burgundy duke of York earl Edward Elean England English Enter king Henry Exeter Exeunt Exit eyes fame father fear fense fight Fluellen folio foul France French friends give gleek Gloster grace hand Harfleur hath head hear heart heaven Henry's honour house of Lancaster house of York Humphrey Jack Cade Johnson Kath lady liege live lord lord protector madam majesty Margaret means ne'er never night noble numbers old quarto peace Plantagenet play Pope prince Pucel quartos read queen Reignier Richard Richard Plantagenet Salisbury SCENE Shakespeare shew soldiers Somerset sovereign speak speech Steevens Suffolk sweet sword Talbot tears tell thee Theobald thine thou art thou hast traitor unto valiant Warburton Warwick words
Page 479 - 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.
Page 125 - Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered, — We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he today that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition: And gentlemen in England now a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
Page 479 - So many hours must I take my rest; So many hours must I contemplate; So many hours must I sport myself; So many days my ewes have been with young; So many weeks ere the poor fools will...
Page 171 - The lines given to the Chorus have many admirers ; but the truth is, that in them a little may be praised, and much must be forgiven...
Page 69 - 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 Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!