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arms art thou Bard Bardolph blood Boling Bolingbroke captain cousin Crown Dauphin dead death dost doth Dowglas Duke Duke of Burgundy Earl editions England Enter Exeunt Exit eyes fair Falstaff fame farewel father fear fense fight foul France French friends Gaunt give Glou Grace grief hand Harfleur Harry hath hear heart heav'n honour horse Host John of Gaunt King Henry Lady Liege live look lord lord of Westmorland Majesty Mowb never night noble Northumberland peace Percy Pist Pistol play Poins Pope pow'r pray Prince Prince of Wales Pucel quarto Queen Reignier Rich Richard Plantagenet Sbal SCENE SCENE shew Sir Dagonet Sir John soldiers Somerset speak stand sweet sword Talbot tell thee Theobald thine thou art thou hast thought tongue Tork true uncle unto Warburton Westmorland wilt word York
Page 134 - By heaven, methinks, it were an easy leap, To pluck bright honour from the pale-fac'd moon ; Or dive into the bottom of the deep, Where fathom-line could never touch the ground And pluck up drowned honour by the locks...
Page 215 - Wednesday. Doth he feel it ? No. Doth he hear it? No. Is it 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 290 - There is a history in all men's lives, Figuring the nature of the times deceased ; The which observed, a man may prophesy, With a near aim, of the main chance of things As yet not come to life, which in their seeds And weak beginnings lie intreasured.
Page 447 - By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear; Such outward things dwell not in my desires; But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive.
Page 405 - 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!
Page 288 - With deaf'ning clamours in the slippery clouds, That, with the hurly, death itself awakes ? Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude; And, in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king ? Then, happy low, lie down ! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
Page 58 - 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 320 - He hath a tear for pity, and a hand Open as day for melting charity...