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Comedic Olivia

Twelfth Night


'What is your parentage?'

'Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:

I am a gentleman.' I'll be sworn thou art;

Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions and spirit,

Do give thee five-fold blazon: not too fast:

soft, soft!

Unless the master were the man. How now!

Even so quickly may one catch the plague?

Methinks I feel this youth's perfections

With an invisible and subtle stealth

To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.

Midsummer Nights Dream

Oh, I am out of breath in this fond chase

The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace

Happy is Hermia, wheresoe'er she lies,

For she hath blessèd and attractive eyes.

How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears.

If so, my eyes are oftener washed than hers.

No, no, I am as ugly as a bear,

For beasts that meet me run away for fear.

Therefore no marvel though Demetrius

Do, as a monster, fly my presence thus.

What wicked and dissembling glass of mine

Made me compare with Hermia’s sphery eyne?

(sees LYSANDER)But who is here? Lysander, on the ground?

Dead or asleep? I see no blood, no wound.—

Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake.

Jailer’s Daughter

Two Noble Kinsmen


Why should I love this Gentleman?

Tis odds He never will affect me; I am base,

My Father the meane Keeper of his Prison,

And he a prince: To marry him is hopeless; To be his whore is witless.

Out upon't, What pushes are we wenches driven to, When fifteen once has found us!

First, I saw him; I (seeing) thought he was a goodly man;

He has as much to please a woman in him, (If he please to bestow it so) as ever

These eyes yet lookt on. Next, I pittied him, And so would any young wench, o' my

That ever dream'd, or vow'd her

Maidenhead To a young handsome Man; Then I lov'd him,

Extremely lov'd him, infinitely lov'd him; And yet he had a Cousin, faire as he too.

But in my heart was Palamon, and there, Lord, what a coyle he keepes! To heare him

Sing in an evening, what a heaven it is! And yet his Songs are sad ones. Fairer spoken

Was never Gentleman. When I come in To bring him water in a morning,

first He bowes his noble body, then salutes me, thus:

'Faire, gentle Mayde, good morrow; may thy goodness Get thee a happy husband.'

Once he kist me. I lov'd my lips the better ten days after. Would he would do so ev'ry

He grieves much, And me as much to see his misery.

What should I do, to make him know I love him? For I would faine enjoy him.
Say I ventur'd To set him free? what saies the law then? Thus much For Law, or kindred!

I will do it, And this night, or to morrow, he shall love me. [Exit.]

Twelfth Night

Make me a willow cabin at your gate

And call upon my soul within the house.

Write loyal cantons of contemned love

And sing them loud even in the dead of night.

Halloo your name to the reverberate hills

And make the babbling gossip of the air

Cry out “Olivia!” Oh, you should not rest

Between the elements of air and earth,

But you should pity me.


As you like it

Think not I love him, though I ask for him.

'Tis but a peevish boy—yet he talks well—

But what care I for words? Yet words do well

When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.

It is a pretty youth—not very pretty—

But sure he’s proud—and yet his pride becomes him.

He’ll make a proper man. The best thing in him

Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue

Did make offense, his eye did heal it up.

He is not very tall—yet for his years he’s tall.

His leg is but so-so—and yet ’tis well.

There was a pretty redness in his lip,

A little riper and more lusty red

Than that mixed in his cheek: ’twas just the difference

Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.

There be some women, Silvius, had they marked him

In parcels as I did, would have gone near

To fall in love with him; but for my part

I love him not nor hate him not; and yet

I have more cause to hate him than to love him.

For what had he to do to chide at me?

He said mine eyes were black and my hair black

And, now I am remembered, scorned at me.

I marvel why I answered not again.

But that’s all one: omittance is no quittance.

I’ll write to him a very taunting letter,

And thou shalt bear it. Wilt thou, Silvius?


Two Gents


And yet I would I had o’erlook’d the letter;

It were a shame to call her back again,

And pray her to a fault for which I chid her.

What ’fool is she, that knows I am a maid,

And would not force the letter to my view!

Since maids, in modesty, say “no” to that

Which they would have the profferer construe “ay.”

Fie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love,

That (like a testy babe) will scratch the nurse

And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod!

How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence,

When willingly I would have had her here!

How angerly I taught my brow to frown,

When inward joy enforc’d my heart to smile!

My penance is, to call Lucetta back

And ask remission for my folly past.

What ho! Lucetta!




Oh, for a horse with wings! Hearst thou, Pisanio?

He is at Milford Haven. Read, and tell me
How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs
May plod it in a week, why may not I
Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio,
Who longst like me to see thy lord, who longst --
Oh, let me bate -- but not like me; yet longst,
But in a fainter kind. Oh, not like me,
For mine's beyond, beyond. Say, and speak thick
(Love's counselor should fill the bores of hearing
To th' smothering of the sense) how far it is
To this same blessed Milford. And by th' way
Tell me how Wales was made so happy as
T'inherit such a haven. But first of all,
How we may steal from hence, and for the gap
That we shall make in time from our hence-going
And our return to excuse -- but first, how get hence.
Why should excuse be born or ere begot?
We'll talk of that hereafter. Prithee speak:
How many score of miles may we well ride
'Twixt hour and hour?


A Mid Summer Nights Dream


How happy some o'er other some can be!

Through Athens I am thought as fair as she.

But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so;

He will not know what all but he do know:

And as he errs, doting on Hermia's eyes,

So I, admiring of his qualities:

Things base and vile, folding no quantity,

Love can transpose to form and dignity:

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind;

And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind:

Nor hath Love's mind of any judgement taste;

Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste:

Therefore is love said to be a child,

Because in choice he is so oft beguiled


Julius Caesar


Is Brutus sick? and is it physical

To walk unbraced and suck up the humours

Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick,

And will he steal out of his wholesome bed,

To dare the vile contagion of the night

And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air

To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus;

You have some sick offence within your mind,

Which, by the right and virtue of my place,

I ought to know of: and, upon my knees,

I charm you, by my once-commended beauty,

By all your vows of love and that great vow

Which did incorporate and make us one,

That you unfold to me, yourself, your half,

Why you are heavy, and what men to-night

Have had to resort to you: for here have been

Some six or seven, who did hide their faces

Even from darkness.


The Comedy of Errors


And may it be that you have quite forgot

A husband's office? shall, Antipholus.

Even in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot?

Shall love, in building, grow so ruinous?

If you did wed my sister for her wealth,

Then for her wealth's sake use her with more kindness:

Or if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth;

Muffle your false love with some show of blindness:

Let not my sister read it in your eye;

Be not thy tongue thy own shame's orator;

Look sweet, be fair, become disloyalty;

Apparel vice like virtue's harbinger;

Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted;

Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint;

Be secret-false: what need she be acquainted?

What simple thief brags of his own attaint?

'Tis double wrong, to truant with your bed

And let her read it in thy looks at board:

Shame hath a bastard fame, well managed;

Ill deeds are doubled with an evil word.

Alas, poor women! make us but believe,

Being compact of credit, that you love us;

Though others have the arm, show us the sleeve;

We in your motion turn and you may move us.

Then, gentle brother, get you in again;

Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife:

'Tis holy sport to be a little vain,

When the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife.

Lady Percy

Henry VI


O yet, for God’s sake, go not to these wars.

The time was, father, that you broke your word,
When you were more endeared to it than now,
When your own Percy, when my heart’s dear Harry,
Threw many a northward look to see his father
Bring up his powers; but he did long in vain.
Who then persuaded you to stay at home?
There were two honors lost, yours and your son’s.
For yours, the God of heaven brighten it.
For his, it stuck upon him as the sun
In the gray vault of heaven, and by his light
Did all the chivalry of England move
To do brave acts. He was indeed the glass
Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves.
He had no legs that practiced not his gait;
And speaking thick, which nature made his blemish,
Became the accents of the valiant;
For those that could speak low and tardily
Would turn their own perfection to abuse



But I do think it is their husbands' faults If wives do fall: say that they slack their

And pour our treasures into foreign laps,

Or else break out in peevish jealousies,

Throwing restraint upon us; or say they strike us, Or scant our former having in

Why, we have galls, and though we have some grace,

Yet have we some revenge.

Let husbands know Their wives have sense like them: they see and smell And
have their palates both for sweet and sour,

As husbands have. What is it that they do

When they change us for others? Is it sport? I think it is: and doth affection breed

I think it doth: is't frailty that thus errs? It is so too: and have not we affections,

Desires for sport, and frailty, as men have? Then let them use us well: else let
them know,

The ills we do, their ills instruct us so.


Measure for Measure


O you beast!

O faithless coward! O dishonest wretch!

Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice?

Is't not a kind of incest to take life

From thine own sister's shame? What should I think?

Heaven shield my mother play'd my father fair!

For such a warped slip of wilderness

Ne'er issued from his blood. Take my defiance:

Die; perish! might but my bending down

Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed:

I'll pray a thousand prayers for thy death, —

No word to save thee.

Jailer’s Daughter
Two Noble Kingsmen

What a stout-hearted child thou art! My father

Durst better have endur’d cold iron than done it.

I love him beyond love and beyond reason,
Or wit, or safety. I have made him know it.
I care not, I am desperate. If the law
Find me, and then condemn me for’t, some wenches,
Some honest-hearted maids, will sing my dirge,
And tell to memory my death was noble,
Dying almost a martyr. That way he takes
I purpose is my way too. Sure he cannot
Be so unmanly as to leave me here.
If he do, maids will not so easily
Trust men again. And yet he has not thank’d me
For what I have done; no, not so much as kiss’d me;
And that, methinks, is not so well; nor scarcely
Could I persuade him to become a freeman,
He made such scruples of the wrong he did
To me and to my father. Yet I hope,
When he considers more, this love of mine
Will take more root within him. Let him do
What he will with me, so he use me kindly,
For use me so he shall, or I’ll proclaim him,
And to his face, no man. I’ll presently
Provide him necessaries, and pack my clothes up,
And where there is a path of ground I’ll venture,
So he be with me. By him, like a shadow,
I’ll ever dwell. Within this hour the whoobub
Will be all o’er the prison. I am then
Kissing the man they look for. Farewell, father;
Get many more such prisoners and such daughters,
And shortly you may keep yourself. Now to him!
Measure for Measure

Could great men thunder

As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet,
For every pelting, petty officer
Would use his heaven for thunder;
Nothing but thunder! Merciful Heaven,
Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt
Split'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak
Than the soft myrtle: but man, proud man,
Drest in a little brief authority,
Most ignorant of what he's most assured,
His glassy essence, like an angry ape,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
As make the angels weep; who, with our spleens,
Would all themselves laugh mortal.

King Lear


Had you not been their father, these white flakes

Had challeng'd pity of them. Was this a face
To be oppos'd against the warring winds?
To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder?
In the most terrible and nimble stroke
Of quick cross lightning? to watch- poor perdu!-
With this thin helm? Mine enemy's dog,
Though he had bit me, should have stood that night
Against my fire; and wast thou fain, poor father,
To hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn,
In short and musty straw? Alack, alack!
'Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once
Had not concluded all.- He wakes. Speak to him.

Lady Ann
Richard III

What, do you tremble? Are you all afraid?

Alas, I blame you not, for you are mortal,
And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil.—
Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell.
Thou hadst but power over his mortal body;
His soul thou canst not have. Therefore begone.
Foul devil, for God’s sake, hence, and trouble us not,
For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell,
Filled it with cursing cries and deep exclaims.
If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds,
Behold this pattern of thy butcheries.
O, gentlemen, see, see dead Henry’s wounds
Open their congealed mouths and bleed afresh!—
Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity,
For ’tis thy presence that exhales this blood
From cold and empty veins where no blood dwells.
Thy deeds, inhuman and unnatural,
Provokes this deluge most unnatural.—
O God, which this blood mad’st, revenge his death!
O earth, which this blood drink’st revenge his death!
Either heaven with lightning strike the murderer dead,
Or earth gape open wide and eat him quick,
As thou dost swallow up this good king’s blood,
Which his hell-governed arm hath butcherèd!


I am a maid,
My lord, that ne'er before invited eyes,
But have been gazed on like a comet: she speaks,
My lord, that, may be, hath endured a grief 2280
Might equal yours, if both were justly weigh'd.
Though wayward fortune did malign my state,
My derivation was from ancestors
Who stood equivalent with mighty kings:
But time hath rooted out my parentage, 2285
And to the world and awkward casualties
Bound me in servitude.
I will desist;
But there is something glows upon my cheek, 2290
And whispers in mine ear, 'Go not till he speak.'

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