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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 |
Love's Labour's Lost
[I, 1] |
Ferdinand |
151 |
We must of force dispense with this decree;
She must lie here on mere necessity.
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2 |
Love's Labour's Lost
[I, 1] |
Costard |
287 |
This was no damsel, neither, sir; she was a virgin.
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3 |
Love's Labour's Lost
[I, 2] |
Moth |
390 |
It was so, sir; for she had a green wit.
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4 |
Love's Labour's Lost
[I, 2] |
Moth |
398 |
If she be made of white and red,
Her faults will ne'er be known,
For blushing cheeks by faults are bred
And fears by pale white shown:
Then if she fear, or be to blame,
By this you shall not know,
For still her cheeks possess the same
Which native she doth owe.
A dangerous rhyme, master, against the reason of
white and red.
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5 |
Love's Labour's Lost
[I, 2] |
Don Adriano de Armado |
413 |
I will have that subject newly writ o'er, that I may
example my digression by some mighty precedent.
Boy, I do love that country girl that I took in the
park with the rational hind Costard: she deserves well.
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6 |
Love's Labour's Lost
[I, 2] |
Dull |
424 |
Sir, the duke's pleasure is, that you keep Costard
safe: and you must suffer him to take no delight
nor no penance; but a' must fast three days a week.
For this damsel, I must keep her at the park: she
is allowed for the day-woman. Fare you well.
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7 |
Love's Labour's Lost
[II, 1] |
Boyet |
485 |
Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits:
Consider who the king your father sends,
To whom he sends, and what's his embassy:
Yourself, held precious in the world's esteem,
To parley with the sole inheritor
Of all perfections that a man may owe,
Matchless Navarre; the plea of no less weight
Than Aquitaine, a dowry for a queen.
Be now as prodigal of all dear grace
As Nature was in making graces dear
When she did starve the general world beside
And prodigally gave them all to you.
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8 |
Love's Labour's Lost
[II, 1] |
Longaville |
690 |
I beseech you a word: what is she in the white?
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9 |
Love's Labour's Lost
[II, 1] |
Boyet |
693 |
She hath but one for herself; to desire that were a shame.
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10 |
Love's Labour's Lost
[II, 1] |
Boyet |
697 |
Good sir, be not offended.
She is an heir of Falconbridge.
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11 |
Love's Labour's Lost
[II, 1] |
Longaville |
699 |
Nay, my choler is ended.
She is a most sweet lady.
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12 |
Love's Labour's Lost
[II, 1] |
Biron |
705 |
Is she wedded or no?
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13 |
Love's Labour's Lost
[IV, 1] |
Rosaline |
1091 |
Why, she that bears the bow.
Finely put off!
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14 |
Love's Labour's Lost
[IV, 1] |
Maria |
1100 |
You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes
at the brow.
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15 |
Love's Labour's Lost
[IV, 1] |
Boyet |
1102 |
But she herself is hit lower: have I hit her now?
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16 |
Love's Labour's Lost
[IV, 1] |
Costard |
1121 |
Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin.
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17 |
Love's Labour's Lost
[IV, 3] |
Biron |
1319 |
The king he is hunting the deer; I am coursing
myself: they have pitched a toil; I am toiling in
a pitch,—pitch that defiles: defile! a foul
word. Well, set thee down, sorrow! for so they say
the fool said, and so say I, and I the fool: well
proved, wit! By the Lord, this love is as mad as
Ajax: it kills sheep; it kills me, I a sheep:
well proved again o' my side! I will not love: if
I do, hang me; i' faith, I will not. O, but her
eye,—by this light, but for her eye, I would not
love her; yes, for her two eyes. Well, I do nothing
in the world but lie, and lie in my throat. By
heaven, I do love: and it hath taught me to rhyme
and to be melancholy; and here is part of my rhyme,
and here my melancholy. Well, she hath one o' my
sonnets already: the clown bore it, the fool sent
it, and the lady hath it: sweet clown, sweeter
fool, sweetest lady! By the world, I would not care
a pin, if the other three were in. Here comes one
with a paper: God give him grace to groan!
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18 |
Love's Labour's Lost
[IV, 3] |
Ferdinand |
1345 |
[Reads]
So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not
To those fresh morning drops upon the rose,
As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote
The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows:
Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright
Through the transparent bosom of the deep,
As doth thy face through tears of mine give light;
Thou shinest in every tear that I do weep:
No drop but as a coach doth carry thee;
So ridest thou triumphing in my woe.
Do but behold the tears that swell in me,
And they thy glory through my grief will show:
But do not love thyself; then thou wilt keep
My tears for glasses, and still make me weep.
O queen of queens! how far dost thou excel,
No thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell.
How shall she know my griefs? I'll drop the paper:
Sweet leaves, shade folly. Who is he comes here?
[Steps aside]
What, Longaville! and reading! listen, ear.
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19 |
Love's Labour's Lost
[IV, 3] |
Biron |
1411 |
By earth, she is not, corporal, there you lie.
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20 |
Love's Labour's Lost
[IV, 3] |
Dumain |
1423 |
I would forget her; but a fever she
Reigns in my blood and will remember'd be.
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