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Ęgeon Antigonus Antipholis art thou Bertram blood Bohemia brother call'd Camillo Clown Const Count daughter Dauphin dear death doth Dromio Duke Enter Ephesus Ev'n Exeunt Exit eyes faid fair father Faulc Faulconbridge fool France gentleman give hand hath hear heart heav'n Hermione honour Hubert husband Illyria in't John King King John knave Lady lise look Lord lyes Madam maid Malvolio Marry master Melun mistress mony mother never night noble Olivia ossice Pandulph Paulina peace Philip poor pr'ythee pray Prince Queen Rousillon SCENE changes sear sellow Shep shew Sicilia Sir Andrew Sir Andrew Ague-cheek Sir Toby sire sirst speak swear sweet tbit tell thee there's thine thing thou art thou hast thoufand tongue wise word
Page 252 - Skulking in corners ? wishing clocks more swift ? Hours, minutes ? noon, midnight ? and all eyes blind With the pin and web,' but theirs, theirs only, That would unseen be wicked ? is this nothing ? Why, then the world, and all that's in't, is nothing; The covering sky is nothing ; Bohemia nothing; My wife is nothing; nor nothing have these nothings, If this be nothing.
Page 384 - Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form; Then, have I reason to be fond of grief ? Fare you well: had you such a loss as I, I could give better comfort than you do.
Page 137 - element,' but the word is over-worn. \Exit. Vio. This fellow is wise enough to play the fool ; And to do that well craves a kind of wit : He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye.
Page 419 - This England never did, (nor never shall,) Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself. Now these her princes are come home again, Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them : Nought shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true.
Page 101 - 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.