All of Shakespeare’s plays.
No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay.
Be it with resolution then to fight.
Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin,
I should not for my life but weep with him.
To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul.
Beshrew me, but his passion moves me so
That hardly can I cheque my eyes from tears.
What would your grace have done unto him now?
So doth the cony struggle in the net.
Hold, Clifford! do not honour him so much
To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart:
What valour were it, when a cur doth grin,
For one to thrust his hand between his teeth,
When he might spurn him with his foot away?
It is war's prize to ...
Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.
Be thou a prey unto the house of York,
And die in bands for this unmanly deed!
Thou art deceived: 'tis not thy southern power,
Of Essex, Norfolk, Suffolk, nor of Kent,
Which makes thee thus presumptuous and proud,
Can set the duke up in despite of me.
Plantagenet, for all the claim thou lay'st,
Think not that Henry shall be so deposed.
Yes, Warwick, I remember it to my grief;
And, by his soul, thou and thy house shall rue it.
Well hast thou spoken, cousin: be it so.
If I be not, heavens be revenged on me!
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