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No,'t is slander,
Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue
Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath
Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie
All corners of the world.

      — Cymbeline, Act III Scene 4

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1-3 of 3 total

KEYWORD: oath

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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

Pericles
[I, 2]

Pericles

361

Tyre, I now look from thee then, and to Tarsus
Intend my travel, where I'll hear from thee;
And by whose letters I'll dispose myself.
The care I had and have of subjects' good
On thee I lay whose wisdom's strength can bear it.
I'll take thy word for faith, not ask thine oath:
Who shuns not to break one will sure crack both:
But in our orbs we'll live so round and safe,
That time of both this truth shall ne'er convince,
Thou show'dst a subject's shine, I a true prince.

2

Pericles
[I, 3]

Thaliard

373

So, this is Tyre, and this the court. Here must I
kill King Pericles; and if I do it not, I am sure to
be hanged at home: 'tis dangerous. Well, I perceive
he was a wise fellow, and had good discretion, that,
being bid to ask what he would of the king, desired
he might know none of his secrets: now do I see he
had some reason for't; for if a king bid a man be a
villain, he's bound by the indenture of his oath to
be one! Hush! here come the lords of Tyre.

3

Pericles
[IV, 1]

Dionyza

1547

Thy oath remember; thou hast sworn to do't:
'Tis but a blow, which never shall be known.
Thou canst not do a thing in the world so soon,
To yield thee so much profit. Let not conscience,
Which is but cold, inflaming love i' thy bosom,
Inflame too nicely; nor let pity, which
Even women have cast off, melt thee, but be
A soldier to thy purpose.

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