All of Shakespeare’s plays.
And that's true too.
No farther, sir; a man may rot even here.
Grace go with you, sir!
The king is mad: how stiff is my vile sense,
That I stand up, and have ingenious feeling
Of my huge sorrows! Better I were distract:
So should my thoughts be sever'd from my griefs,
And woes by wrong imaginations lose
The knowledge of themselves.
What, is he dead?
Now let thy friendly hand
Put strength enough to't.
The bounty and the benison of heaven
To boot, and boot!
Now, good sir, what are you?
You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from me:
Let not my worser spirit tempt me again
To die before you please!
Alack, alack the day!
I see it feelingly.
What, with the case of eyes?
Were all the letters suns, I could not see one.
O ruin'd piece of nature! This great world
Shall so wear out to nought. Dost thou know me?
O, let me kiss that hand!
The trick of that voice I do well remember:
Is 't not the king?
I know that voice.
I do remember now: henceforth I'll bear
Affliction till it do cry out itself
'Enough, enough,' and die. That thing you speak of,
I took it for a man; often 'twould say
'The fiend, the fiend:' he led me to that place.
A poor unfortunate beggar.
Too well, too well.
Alack, I have no eyes.
Is wretchedness deprived that benefit,
To end itself by death? 'Twas yet some comfort,
When misery could beguile the tyrant's rage,
And frustrate his proud will.
But have I fall'n, or no?
Away, and let me die.
Kneeling O you mighty gods!
This world I do renounce, and, in your sights,
Shake patiently my great affliction off:
If I could bear it longer, and not fall
To quarrel with your great opposeless wills,
My snuff and loathed part of nature should
Burn itself out. If Edgar live ...
With all my heart.
Let go my hand.
Here, friend, 's another purse; in it a jewel
Well worth a poor man's taking: fairies and gods
Prosper it with thee! Go thou farther off;
Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee going.
Set me where you stand.
Methinks you're better spoken.
So may it be, indeed:
Methinks thy voice is alter'd; and thou speak'st
In better phrase and matter than thou didst.
Methinks the ground is even.
When shall we come to the top of that same hill?
There is a cliff, whose high and bending head
Looks fearfully in the confined deep:
Bring me but to the very brim of it,
And I'll repair the misery thou dost bear
With something rich about me: from that place
I shall no leading need.
Here, take this purse, thou whom the heavens' plagues
Have humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched
Makes thee the happier: heavens, deal so still!
Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man,
That slaves your ordinance, that will not see
Because he doth not feel, feel your power quickly;
Know'st thou the way to Dover?
Come hither, fellow.
Sirrah, naked fellow,--
'Tis the times' plague, when madmen lead the blind.
Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure;
Above the rest, be gone.
Then, prithee, get thee gone: if, for my sake,
Thou wilt o'ertake us, hence a mile or twain,
I' the way toward Dover, do it for ancient love;
And bring some covering for this naked soul,
Who I'll entreat to lead me.
Is that the naked fellow?
He has some reason, else he could not beg.
I' the last night's storm I such a fellow saw;
Which made me think a man a worm: my son
Came then into my mind; and yet my mind
Was then scarce friends with him: I have heard
more since ...
Is it a beggar-man?
I have no way, and therefore want no eyes;
I stumbled when I saw: full oft 'tis seen,
Our means secure us, and our mere defects
Prove our commodities. O dear son Edgar,
The food of thy abused father's wrath!
Might I but live to see thee in my ...
Away, get thee away; good friend, be gone:
Thy comforts can do me no good at all;
Thee they may hurt.
O my follies! then Edgar was abused.
Kind gods, forgive me that, and prosper him!
All dark and comfortless. Where's my son Edmund?
Edmund, enkindle all the sparks of nature,
To quit this horrid act.
He that will think to live till he be old,
Give me some help! O cruel! O you gods!
Because I would not see thy cruel nails
Pluck out his poor old eyes; nor thy fierce sister
In his anointed flesh stick boarish fangs.
The sea, with such a storm as his bare head
In hell-black night endured, would have buoy'd up,
And quench'd the stelled fires ...
I am tied to the stake, and I must stand the course.
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