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Result number
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Work
The work is either a play, poem, or sonnet. The sonnets
are treated as single work with 154 parts.
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Character
Indicates who said the line. If it's a play or sonnet,
the character name is "Poet."
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Line
Shows where the line falls within the work.
The numbering is not keyed to any copyrighted numbering system found in a volume of
collected works (Arden, Oxford, etc.) The numbering starts at the beginning of the work, and does not
restart for each scene.
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Text
The line's full text, with keywords highlighted
within it, unless highlighting has been disabled by the user.
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1 |
Twelfth Night
[I, 3] |
Sir Toby Belch |
133 |
He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.
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2 |
Twelfth Night
[I, 3] |
Sir Andrew Aguecheek |
192 |
Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary
put me down. Methinks sometimes I have no more wit
than a Christian or an ordinary man has: but I am a
great eater of beef and I believe that does harm to my wit.
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3 |
Twelfth Night
[I, 3] |
Sir Toby Belch |
214 |
She'll none o' the count: she'll not match above
her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I
have heard her swear't. Tut, there's life in't,
man.
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4 |
Twelfth Night
[I, 3] |
Sir Andrew Aguecheek |
222 |
As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the
degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare
with an old man.
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5 |
Twelfth Night
[I, 3] |
Sir Andrew Aguecheek |
228 |
And I think I have the back-trick simply as strong
as any man in Illyria.
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6 |
Twelfth Night
[I, 4] |
Orsino |
277 |
Dear lad, believe it;
For they shall yet belie thy happy years,
That say thou art a man: Diana's lip
Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe
Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound,
And all is semblative a woman's part.
I know thy constellation is right apt
For this affair. Some four or five attend him;
All, if you will; for I myself am best
When least in company. Prosper well in this,
And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord,
To call his fortunes thine.
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7 |
Twelfth Night
[I, 5] |
Feste |
323 |
Wit, an't be thy will, put me into good fooling!
Those wits, that think they have thee, do very oft
prove fools; and I, that am sure I lack thee, may
pass for a wise man: for what says Quinapalus?
'Better a witty fool, than a foolish wit.'
[Enter OLIVIA with MALVOLIO]
God bless thee, lady!
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8 |
Twelfth Night
[I, 5] |
Feste |
334 |
Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel
will amend: for give the dry fool drink, then is
the fool not dry: bid the dishonest man mend
himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if
he cannot, let the botcher mend him. Any thing
that's mended is but patched: virtue that
transgresses is but patched with sin; and sin that
amends is but patched with virtue. If that this
simple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not,
what remedy? As there is no true cuckold but
calamity, so beauty's a flower. The lady bade take
away the fool; therefore, I say again, take her away.
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9 |
Twelfth Night
[I, 5] |
Olivia |
380 |
Oh, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste
with a distempered appetite. To be generous,
guiltless and of free disposition, is to take those
things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon-bullets:
there is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do
nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet
man, though he do nothing but reprove.
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10 |
Twelfth Night
[I, 5] |
Maria |
393 |
I know not, madam: 'tis a fair young man, and well attended.
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11 |
Twelfth Night
[I, 5] |
Sir Toby Belch |
412 |
'Tis a gentle man here—a plague o' these
pickle-herring! How now, sot!
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12 |
Twelfth Night
[I, 5] |
Olivia |
421 |
What's a drunken man like, fool?
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13 |
Twelfth Night
[I, 5] |
Feste |
422 |
Like a drowned man, a fool and a mad man: one
draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads
him; and a third drowns him.
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14 |
Twelfth Night
[I, 5] |
Olivia |
443 |
What kind o' man is he?
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15 |
Twelfth Night
[I, 5] |
Olivia |
445 |
What manner of man?
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16 |
Twelfth Night
[I, 5] |
Malvolio |
448 |
Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for
a boy; as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a
cooling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis with him
in standing water, between boy and man. He is very
well-favoured and he speaks very shrewishly; one
would think his mother's milk were scarce out of him.
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17 |
Twelfth Night
[I, 5] |
Olivia |
583 |
'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.
What ho, Malvolio!
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18 |
Twelfth Night
[I, 5] |
Olivia |
597 |
Run after that same peevish messenger,
The county's man: he left this ring behind him,
Would I or not: tell him I'll none of it.
Desire him not to flatter with his lord,
Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him:
If that the youth will come this way to-morrow,
I'll give him reasons for't: hie thee, Malvolio.
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19 |
Twelfth Night
[II, 2] |
Viola |
674 |
I left no ring with her: what means this lady?
Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her!
She made good view of me; indeed, so much,
That sure methought her eyes had lost her tongue,
For she did speak in starts distractedly.
She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion
Invites me in this churlish messenger.
None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none.
I am the man: if it be so, as 'tis,
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.
How easy is it for the proper-false
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we!
For such as we are made of, such we be.
How will this fadge? my master loves her dearly;
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.
What will become of this? As I am man,
My state is desperate for my master's love;
As I am woman,—now alas the day!—
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!
O time! thou must untangle this, not I;
It is too hard a knot for me to untie!
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20 |
Twelfth Night
[II, 3] |
Sir Toby Belch |
775 |
My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians, Malvolio's
a Peg-a-Ramsey, and 'Three merry men be we.' Am not
I consanguineous? am I not of her blood?
Tillyvally. Lady!
[Sings]
'There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!'
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