All of Shakespeare’s plays.
Good night: I prithee, come.
Troilus, farewell! one eye yet looks on thee
But with my heart the other eye doth see.
Ah, poor our sex! this fault in us I find,
The error of our eye directs our mind:
What error leads must err; O, then conclude ...
Ay, come:--O Jove!--do come:--I shall be plagued.
You shall not go: one cannot speak a word,
But it straight starts you.
Well, well, 'tis done, 'tis past: and yet it is not;
I will not keep my word.
By all Diana's waiting-women yond,
And by herself, I will not tell you whose.
'Twas one's that loved me better than you will.
But, now you have it, take it.
It is no matter.
You shall not have it, Diomed; faith, you shall not;
I'll give you something else.
O, all you gods! O pretty, pretty pledge!
Thy master now lies thinking in his bed
Of thee and me, and sighs, and takes my glove,
And gives memorial dainty kisses to it,
As I kiss thee. Nay, do not snatch it from me;
He that takes that doth take ...
It is no matter, now I have't again.
I will not meet with you to-morrow night:
I prithee, Diomed, visit me no more.
You look upon that sleeve; behold it well.
He loved me--O false wench!--Give't me again.
Here, Diomed, keep this sleeve.
I'll fetch you one.
In faith, I will, la; never trust me else.
In faith, I do not: come hither once again.
Nay, but you part in anger.
Hark, one word in your ear.
I prithee, do not hold me to mine oath;
Bid me do any thing but that, sweet Greek.
In faith, I cannot: what would you have me do?
I'll tell you what,--
Sweet honey Greek, tempt me no more to folly.
Now, my sweet guardian! Hark, a word with you.
I am your debtor, claim it when 'tis due.
Why, beg, then.
No, I'll be sworn.
No, Paris is not; for you know 'tis true,
That you are odd, and he is even with you.
You're an odd man; give even or give none.
I'll make my match to live,
The kiss you take is better than you give;
Therefore no kiss.
In kissing, do you render or receive?
My lord, will you be true?
Do you think I will?
O heavens! you love me not.
O heavens! 'be true' again!
And you this glove. When shall I see you?
O, you shall be exposed, my lord, to dangers
As infinite as imminent! but I'll be true.
I true! how now! what wicked deem is this?
A woful Cressid 'mongst the merry Greeks!
When shall we see again?
I must then to the Grecians?
Is it possible?
What, and from Troilus too?
And is it true that I must go from Troy?
Have the gods envy?
O Troilus! Troilus!
Why tell you me of moderation?
The grief is fine, full, perfect, that I taste,
And violenteth in a sense as strong
As that which causeth it: how can I moderate it?
If I could temporize with my affection,
Or brew it to a weak and colder palate,
The like ...
Tear my bright hair and scratch my praised cheeks,
Crack my clear voice with sobs and break my heart
With sounding Troilus. I will not go from Troy.
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