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answer arms Bard Bardolph Bast bear better blood Boling Bolingbroke breath brother comes cousin crown dead death dost doth duke earth England Enter Exeunt eyes face fair faith Falstaff father fear France friends Gaunt give grace grief hand Harry hast hath head hear heart heaven HENRY hold honour hope horse Host hour I'll John keep king Lady land leave lies live look lord majesty master means meet never night noble North peace Percy Poins poor pray prince Queen Rich Richard SCENE Shal Shallow shame sick Sir John soul speak spirit stand sweet sword tears tell thee thine thing thou art thou hast thought thousand tongue true uncle York young
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.