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arms art thou Aumerle Baling Bard Bardolph Bast blood Bolingbroke breath brother Colevile cousin crown dead death devil didst dost doth Duch duke duke of Hereford earl earth Eastcheap England Enter Exeunt Exit eyes fair faith Falstaff FALSTAPP Farewell father fear France friends Gaunt give Glend grace grief hand Harry Harry Percy hath head hear heart heaven Hereford hither honour horse Host John King Richard Lady Lancaster land liege live look lord Lord Marshal majesty Mortimer never night noble North Northumberland pardon peace Percy Poins pr'ythee pray prince prince of Wales Queen Re-enter Rich SCENE Shal shame Shrewshury Sir Jobn Sirrah soul speak stand sweet sword tell thee thine thon thou art thou hast tongue true uncle unto villain weleome Westmoreland wilt word York Zounds
Page 90 - O ! who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast? Or wallow naked in December snow By thinking on fantastic summer's heat?
Page 117 - Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp, Allowing him a breath, a little scene, To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks, Infusing him with self and vain conceit, As if this flesh which walls about our life Were brass impregnable, and, humour'd thus Comes at the last and with a little pin Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king...
Page 224 - 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 116 - Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs ; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let's choose executors, and talk of wills: And yet not so, — for what can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground ? Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's, And nothing can we call our own, but death ; And that small model of the barren earth, Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
Page 190 - Harry, I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou art accompanied : for though the camomile, the more it is trodden on, the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears.
Page 41 - 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.