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arms art thou Aumerle Bard Bardolph Bast Bishop of Carlisle blood Boling Bolingbroke breath brother cousin crown dead death dost thou doth Duch duke earl Eastcheap England Enter KING Ereunt Erit eyes fair faith Falstaff father Faulconbridge fear France friends Gaunt give Glend Glendower grace grief hand Harry Harry Percy hath head hear heart heaven hither honour horse Host Hubert John of Gaunt King John King Richard Lady Lancaster land liege live look lord majesty master never night noble North Northumberland PANDULPH pardon peace Percy Pist Poins pr’ythee pray prince prince of Wales Queen Re-enter Rich SCENE Shal Shallow shame Sir John Sir John Falstaff soul speak sweet sword tell thee thine thou art thou hast tongue true uncle unto villain Westmoreland What’s wilt word York
Page 84 - 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 111 - 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 218 - 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 110 - 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 184 - 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 35 - 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.