All of Shakespeare’s plays.
'Twill make us proud to be his servant, Paris;
Yea, what he shall receive of us in duty
Gives us more palm in beauty than we have,
Yea, overshines ourself.
Commend me to your niece.
He hangs the lip at something: you know all, Lord Pandarus.
In love, i' faith, to the very tip of the nose.
Let thy song be love: this love will undo us all.
O Cupid, Cupid, Cupid!
Ay, ay, prithee now. By my troth, sweet lord, thou
hast a fine forehead.
Falling in, after falling out, may make them three.
She shall have it, my lord, if it be not my lord Paris.
Why, this is kindly done.
Nay, but, my lord,--
My Lord Pandarus,--
And to make a sweet lady sad is a sour offence.
You shall not bob us out of our melody: if you do,
our melancholy upon your head!
My Lord Pandarus; honey-sweet lord,--
Nay, this shall not hedge us out: we'll hear you
Dear lord, you are full of fair words.
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