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Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York,
And all the clouds that loured upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

— King Richard III, Act I Scene 1

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1-7 of 7 total

KEYWORD: damsel

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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 VI, Part I [III, 2]	Lord Talbot/Earl of Shrewsbury	1505	Foul fiend of France, and hag of all despite, Encompass'd with thy lustful paramours! Becomes it thee to taunt his valiant age And twit with cowardice a man half dead? Damsel, I'll have a bout with you again, Or else let Talbot perish with this shame.
2	Henry VI, Part I [V, 3]	Richard Plantagenet (Duke of Gloucester)	2486	Damsel of France, I think I have you fast: Unchain your spirits now with spelling charms And try if they can gain your liberty. A goodly prize, fit for the devil's grace! See, how the ugly wench doth bend her brows, As if with Circe she would change my shape!
3	Love's Labour's Lost [I, 1]	Costard	285	I was taken with none, sir: I was taken with a damsel.
4	Love's Labour's Lost [I, 1]	Ferdinand	286	Well, it was proclaimed 'damsel.'
5	Love's Labour's Lost [I, 1]	Costard	287	This was no damsel, neither, sir; she was a virgin.
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.
7	Passionate Pilgrim	Shakespeare	216	Long was the combat doubtful that love with love did fight, To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant knight: To put in practise either, alas, it was a spite Unto the silly damsel!

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