All of Shakespeare’s plays.
That is the very defect of the matter, sir.
I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon
your worship, and my suit is--
His master and he, saving your worship's reverence,
are scarce cater-cousins--
He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve--
Here's my son, sir, a poor boy,--
God bless your worship!
Lord, how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy
master agree? I have brought him a present. How
'gree you now?
Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn, if thou
be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood.
Lord worshipped might he be! what a beard hast thou
got! thou hast got more hair on thy chin than
Dobbin my fill-horse has on his tail.
I cannot think you are my son.
Pray you, sir, stand up: I am sure you are not
Launcelot, my boy.
Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not.
Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman:
but, I pray you, tell me, is my boy, God rest his
soul, alive or dead?
Marry, God forbid! the boy was the very staff of my
age, my very prop.
Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership.
Your worship's friend and Launcelot, sir.
No master, sir, but a poor man's son: his father,
though I say it, is an honest exceeding poor man
and, God be thanked, well to live.
By God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit. Can
you tell me whether one Launcelot,
that dwells with him, dwell with him or no?
Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way
to master Jew's?
Master young man, you, I pray you, which is the way
to master Jew's?
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