# 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

Love's Labour's Lost
[II, 1]

Princess of France

520

All pride is willing pride, and yours is so.
[Exit BOYET]
Who are the votaries, my loving lords,
That are vow-fellows with this virtuous duke?

2

Love's Labour's Lost
[II, 1]

Princess of France

581

'Fair' I give you back again; and 'welcome' I have
not yet: the roof of this court is too high to be
yours; and welcome to the wide fields too base to be mine.

3

Love's Labour's Lost
[II, 1]

Rosaline

683

And yours from long living!

4

Love's Labour's Lost
[IV, 3]

Ferdinand

1616

'Twere good, yours did; for, sir, to tell you plain,
I'll find a fairer face not wash'd to-day.

5

Love's Labour's Lost
[V, 2]

Rosaline

1912

I would you knew:
An if my face were but as fair as yours,
My favour were as great; be witness this.
Nay, I have verses too, I thank Biron:
The numbers true; and, were the numbering too,
I were the fairest goddess on the ground:
I am compared to twenty thousand fairs.
O, he hath drawn my picture in his letter!

6

Love's Labour's Lost
[V, 2]

Biron

2304

O, I am yours, and all that I possess!

7

Love's Labour's Lost
[V, 2]

Costard

2615

Faith, unless you play the honest Troyan, the poor
wench is cast away: she's quick; the child brags in
her belly already: tis yours.

8

Love's Labour's Lost
[V, 2]

Biron

2693

Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief;
And by these badges understand the king.
For your fair sakes have we neglected time,
Play'd foul play with our oaths: your beauty, ladies,
Hath much deform'd us, fashioning our humours
Even to the opposed end of our intents:
And what in us hath seem'd ridiculous,—
As love is full of unbefitting strains,
All wanton as a child, skipping and vain,
Form'd by the eye and therefore, like the eye,
Full of strange shapes, of habits and of forms,
Varying in subjects as the eye doth roll
To every varied object in his glance:
Which parti-coated presence of loose love
Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes,
Have misbecomed our oaths and gravities,
Those heavenly eyes, that look into these faults,
Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies,
Our love being yours, the error that love makes
Is likewise yours: we to ourselves prove false,
By being once false for ever to be true
To those that make us both,—fair ladies, you:
And even that falsehood, in itself a sin,
Thus purifies itself and turns to grace.