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A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.

      — Hamlet, Act I Scene 2

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KEYWORD: blessed

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# Result number

Work The work is either a play, poem, or sonnet. The sonnets are treated as single work with 154 parts.

Character Indicates who said the line. If it's a play or sonnet, the character name is "Poet."

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.

Text The line's full text, with keywords highlighted within it, unless highlighting has been disabled by the user.

1

Henry IV, Part II
[II, 2]

Henry V

1010

It would be every man's thought; and thou art a blessed
fellow to think as every man thinks. Never a man's thought in
world keeps the road-way better than thine. Every man would
me an hypocrite indeed. And what accites your most worshipful
thought to think so?

2

Henry IV, Part II
[IV, 1]

Earl of Westmoreland

2235

Then, my lord,
Unto your Grace do I in chief address
The substance of my speech. If that rebellion
Came like itself, in base and abject routs,
Led on by bloody youth, guarded with rags,
And countenanc'd by boys and beggary-
I say, if damn'd commotion so appear'd
In his true, native, and most proper shape,
You, reverend father, and these noble lords,
Had not been here to dress the ugly form
Of base and bloody insurrection
With your fair honours. You, Lord Archbishop,
Whose see is by a civil peace maintain'd,
Whose beard the silver hand of peace hath touch'd,
Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutor'd,
Whose white investments figure innocence,
The dove, and very blessed spirit of peace-
Wherefore you do so ill translate yourself
Out of the speech of peace, that bears such grace,
Into the harsh and boist'rous tongue of war;
Turning your books to graves, your ink to blood,
Your pens to lances, and your tongue divine
To a loud trumpet and a point of war?

3

Henry IV, Part II
[V, 3]

Falstaff

3542

Carry Master Silence to bed. Master Shallow, my Lord
Shallow, be what thou wilt—I am Fortune's steward. Get on
boots; we'll ride all night. O sweet Pistol! Away, Bardolph!
[Exit BARDOLPH] Come, Pistol, utter more to me; and withal
devise something to do thyself good. Boot, boot, Master
I know the young King is sick for me. Let us take any man's
horses: the laws of England are at my commandment. Blessed
they that have been my friends; and woe to my Lord Chief

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