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againſt Arms Baft Bard bear better Blood Breath Brother Bulling Cade comes Coufin Crown dead Death doth Duke e'er England English Enter Exeunt Exit Eyes Face fair Father fear felf fhall fhould fight follow fome fpeak France French Friends ftand fuch give Grace Grief Hand Harry hath Head hear Heart Heav'n Henry Hoft hold Honour hope I'll John keep King Lady Land leave live look Lord Love Mafter Majefty means meet moft muft muſt Name never Night noble North once Peace Poins poor Power pray Prince Queen Rich Richard SCENE ſhall Sir John Soldiers Soul Spirit Suffolk Sword Talbot tell thee thefe theſe thine thing thou art thought Tongue true Uncle unto whofe World York young
Page 1271 - I know thee not, old man: Fall to thy prayers ; How ill white hairs become a fool, and jester!
Page 1177 - 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. A trim reckoning ! — Who hath it? He that died o
Page 1287 - Where some, like magistrates, correct at home, Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad, Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds, Which pillage they with merry march bring home To the tent-royal of their ( emperor...
Page 1178 - Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no. 'Tis insensible, then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? no. Why? detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I'll none of • it. Honour is a mere scutcheon : and so ends my catechism.
Page 1305 - Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; Let it pry through the portage of the head Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it As fearfully as doth a galled rock O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Page 1118 - When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, Came there a certain lord, neat, and trimly dress'd, Fresh as a bridegroom, and his chin new reap'd Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest-home.
Page 1305 - ... 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 ! [Exeunt . Alarum, and Chambers go off.
Page 1071 - 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 at his pomp...
Page 1333 - This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered...