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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 |
Two Gentlemen of Verona
[II, 1] |
Valentine |
480 |
Last night she enjoined me to write some lines to
one she loves.
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2 |
Two Gentlemen of Verona
[II, 1] |
Valentine |
503 |
No, madam; so it stead you, I will write
Please you command, a thousand times as much; And yet—
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3 |
Two Gentlemen of Verona
[II, 1] |
Valentine |
518 |
Please you, I'll write your ladyship another.
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4 |
Two Gentlemen of Verona
[II, 1] |
Speed |
525 |
O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible,
As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple!
My master sues to her, and she hath
taught her suitor,
He being her pupil, to become her tutor.
O excellent device! was there ever heard a better,
That my master, being scribe, to himself should write
the letter?
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5 |
Two Gentlemen of Verona
[II, 1] |
Speed |
542 |
What need she, when she hath made you write to
yourself? Why, do you not perceive the jest?
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6 |
Two Gentlemen of Verona
[II, 1] |
Speed |
552 |
I'll warrant you, 'tis as well:
For often have you writ to her, and she, in modesty,
Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply;
Or fearing else some messenger that might her mind discover,
Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto her lover.
All this I speak in print, for in print I found it.
Why muse you, sir? 'tis dinner-time.
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7 |
Two Gentlemen of Verona
[III, 2] |
Proteus |
1525 |
Say that upon the altar of her beauty
You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart:
Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears
Moist it again, and frame some feeling line
That may discover such integrity:
For Orpheus' lute was strung with poets' sinews,
Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones,
Make tigers tame and huge leviathans
Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands.
After your dire-lamenting elegies,
Visit by night your lady's chamber-window
With some sweet concert; to their instruments
Tune a deploring dump: the night's dead silence
Will well become such sweet-complaining grievance.
This, or else nothing, will inherit her.
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