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againſt Anne arms bear better blood brother Buck Buckingham Cade Cardinal Clarence Clif Clifford comes crown dead death doth Duke Edward England Enter Exeunt Exit eyes fair fall father fear fight firſt follow France friends gentle give Glou Grace hand Haſtings hath head hear heart heav'n Henry Highneſs honour hope houſe I'll King Lady leave live look Lord Madam mean mind moſt mother muſt never night noble once peace pleaſe poor pray Prince Queen Ricb Rich Richard royal ſay SCENE ſee ſelf ſet ſhall ſhe ſhould ſome Somerſet ſon ſoul ſpeak ſtand ſuch Suffolk ſweet tears tell thank thee theſe thine thing thoſe thou thought tongue true unto Warwick whoſe wife York
135 psl. - Content!' to that which grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face to all occasions.
304 psl. - tis better to be lowly born, And range with humble livers in content, Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief, And wear a golden sorrow.
176 psl. - Why I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun, And descant on mine own deformity. And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover To entertain these fair well-spoken days, . I am determined to prove a villain, And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
122 psl. - So many hours must I tend my flock; So many hours must I take my rest; So many hours must I contemplate; So many hours must I sport myself; So many days my ewes have been with young; So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean; So many years ere I shall shear the fleece: So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years, Pass'd over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
170 psl. - I have no brother, I am like no brother; And this word 'love,' which greybeards call divine, Be resident in men like one another, And not in me! I am myself alone.
122 psl. - O God! methinks it were a happy life, To be no better than a homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run...
331 psl. - Why, well; Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. I know myself now; and I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities, A still and quiet conscience.
330 psl. - But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride At length broke under me ; and now has left me, Weary, and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.