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Shakespeare quotes on bloodThis were to be new made when thou art old, And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold And their gross painting might be better used, Where cheeks need blood, in thee it is abused I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry that I may repent If ever we are nature's, these are ours; this thorn Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong; Our blood to us, this to our blood is born Many hot inroads They make in Italy; the borders maritime Lack blood to think on't, and flush youth revolt Where hast thou been, my heart? Dost thou hear, lady? If from the field I shall return once more To kiss these lips, I will appear in blood My dear master, My captain and my emperor, let me say, Before I strike this bloody stroke, farewell This is his sword; I robb'd his wound of it; behold it stain'd With his most noble blood The courtesy of nations allows you my better in that you are the first-born; but the same tradition takes not away my blood, were there twenty brothers betwixt us Orlando doth commend him to you both; And to that youth he calls his Rosalind He sends this bloody napkin I press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country copulatives, to swear and to forswear, according as marriage binds and blood breaks Now, this no more dishonours you at all Than to take in a town with gentle words, Which else would put you to your fortune and The hazard of much blood Enter, in mourning habits, VIRGILIA, VOLUMNIA, VALERIA, YOUNG MARCIUS, with attendants My wife comes foremost, then the Source: THE TRAGEDY OF CORIOLANUS We must find An evident calamity, though we had Our wish, which side should win; for either thou Must as a foreign recreant be led With manacles through our streets, or else Triumphantly tread on thy country's ruin, And bear the palm for having bravely shed Thy wife and children's blood O gods and goddesses! [Seeing the body] These flow'rs are like the pleasures of the world; This bloody man, the care on't Mighty sir, These two young gentlemen that call me father, And think they are my sons, are none of mine; They are the issue of your loins, my liege, And blood of your begetting Set on there! Never was a war did cease, Ere bloody hands were wash'd, with such a peace Sleeping within my orchard, My custom always of the afternoon, Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole, With juice of cursed hebona in a vial, And in the porches of my ears did pour The leperous distilment; whose effect Holds such an enmity with blood of man That swift as quicksilverr it courses through The natural gates and alleys of the body, And with a sudden vigour it doth posset And curd, like eager droppings into milk, The thin and wholesome blood How stand I then, That have a father klll'd, a mother stain'd, Excitements of my reason and my blood, And let all sleep, while to my shame I see The imminent death of twenty thousand men That for a fantasy and trick of fame Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, Which is not tomb enough and continent To hide the slain? O, from this time forth, My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth! Exit. To his good friends thus wide I'll ope my arms And, like the kind life-rend'ring pelican, Repast them with my blood O proud Death, What feast is toward in thine eternal cell That thou so many princes at a shot So bloodily hast struck No more the thirsty entrance of this soil Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood Three times they breath'd, and three times did they drink, Upon agreement, of swift Severn's flood; Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks, Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank, Bloodstained with these valiant cohabitants But shall it be that you, that set the crown Upon the head of this forgetful man, And for his sake wear the detested blot Of murtherous subornation- shall it be That you a world of curses undergo, Being the agents or base second means, The cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather? O, pardon me that I descend so low To show the line and the predicament Wherein you range under this subtile king! Shall it for shame be spoken in these days, Or fill up chronicles in time to come, That men of your nobility and power Did gage them both in an unjust behalf (As both of you, God pardon it! have done) To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose, And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke? And shall it in more shame be further spoken That you are fool'd, discarded, and shook off By him for whom these shames ye underwent? No! yet time serves wherein you may redeem Your banish'd honours and restore yourselves Into the good thoughts of the world again; Revenge the jeering and disdain'd contempt Of this proud king, who studies day and night To answer all the debt he owes to you Even with the bloody payment of your deaths Yea, and to tickle our noses with speargrass to make them bleed, and then to beslubber our garments with it and swear it was the blood of true men Thy place in Council thou hast rudely lost, Which by thy younger brother is supplied, And art almost an alien to the hearts Of all the court and princes of my blood Now, by my sceptre, and my soul to boot, He hath more worthy interest to the state Than thou, the shadow of succession; For of no right, nor colour like to right, He doth fill fields with harness in the realm, Turns head against the lion's armed jaws, And, Being no more in debt to years than thou, Leads ancient lords and reverend Bishops on To bloody battles and to bruising arms Arm, arm with speed! and, fellows, soldiers, friends, Better consider what you have to do Than I, that have not well the gift of tongue, Can lift your blood up with persuasion O, I should have a heavy miss of thee If I were much in love with vanity! Death hath not struck so fat a deer to-day, Though many dearer, in this bloody fray But what need I thus My well-known body to anatomize Among my household? Why is Rumour here? I run before King Harry's victory, Who, in a bloody field by Shrewsbury, Hath beaten down young Hotspur and his troops, Quenching the flame of bold rebellion Even with the rebels' blood After him came spurring hard A gentleman, almost forspent with speed, That stopp'd by me to breathe his bloodied horse Is't come to that? I had thought weariness durst not have attach'd one of so high blood Thou whoreson mad compound of majesty, by this light flesh and corrupt blood, thou art welcome Go, my dread lord, to your great-grandsire's tomb, From whom you claim; invoke his warlike spirit, And your great-uncle's, Edward the Black Prince, Who on the French ground play'd a tragedy, Making defeat on the fun power of France, Whiles his most mighty father on a hill Stood smiling to behold his lion's whelp Forage in blood of French nobility Your brother kings and monarchs of the earth Do all expect that you should rouse yourself, As did the former lions of your blood Yoke-fellows in arms, Let us to France, like horse-leeches, my boys, To suck, to suck, the very blood to suck If not- why, in a moment look to see The blind and bloody with foul hand Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters; Your fathers taken by the silver beards, And their most reverend heads dash'd to the walls; Your naked infants spitted upon pikes, Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confus'd Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry At Herod's bloody-hunting slaughtermen Bar Harry England, that sweeps through our land With pennons painted in the blood of Harfleur Moy shall not serve; I will have forty moys; Or I will fetch thy rim out at thy throat In drops of crimson blood Lives he, good uncle? Thrice within this hour I saw him down; thrice up again, and fighting; From helmet to the spur all blood he was So that, in these ten thousand they have lost, There are but sixteen hundred mercenaries; The rest are princes, barons, lords, knights, squires, And gentlemen of blood and quality Ten thousand soldiers with me I will take, Whose bloody deeds shall make an Europe quake Gloucester, we'll meet to thy cost, be sure; Thy heart-blood I will have for this day's work You see what mischief, and what murder too, Hath been enacted through your enmity; Then be at peace, except ye thirst for blood And those occasions, uncle, were of force; Therefore, my loving lords, our pleasure is That Richard be restored to his blood Villain, thou knowest the law of arms is such That whoso draws a sword 'tis present death, Or else this blow should broach thy dearest blood He then that is not furnish'd in this sort Doth but usurp the sacred name of knight, Profaning this most honourable order, And should, if I were worthy to be judge, Be quite degraded, like a hedge-born swain That doth presume to boast of gentle blood Lo, there thou stand'st, a breathing valiant man, Of an invincible unconquer'd spirit! This is the latest glory of thy praise That I, thy enemy, due thee withal; For ere the glass that now begins to run Finish the process of his sandy hour, These eyes that see thee now well coloured Shall see thee withered, bloody, pale, and dead The sword of Orleans hath not made me smart; These words of yours draw life-blood from my heart For grief that they are past recovery; For were there hope to conquer them again My sword should shed hot blood, mine eyes no tears In Ireland have I seen this stubborn Cade Oppose himself against a troop of kerns, And fought so long tiff that his thighs with darts Were almost like a sharp-quill'd porpentine; And in the end being rescu'd, I have seen Him caper upright like a wild Morisco, Shaking the bloody darts as he his bells But that the guilt of murder bucklers thee, And I should rob the deathsman of his fee, Quitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames, And that my sovereign's presence makes me mild, I would, false murd'rous coward, on thy knee Make thee beg pardon for thy passed speech And say it was thy mother that thou meant'st, That thou thyself was born in bastardy; And, after all this fearful homage done, Give thee thy hire and send thy soul to hell, Pernicious blood-sucker of sleeping men Therefore bring forth the soldiers of our prize; For, whilst our pinnace anchors in the Downs, Here shall they make their ransom on the sand, Or with their blood stain this discoloured shore Plantagenet, of thee, and these thy sons, Thy kinsmen, and thy friends, I'll have more lives Than drops of blood were in my father's veins Do right unto this princely Duke of York; Or I will fill the house with armed men, And over the chair of state, where now he sits, Write up his title with usurping blood Farewell, faint-hearted and degenerate king, In whose cold blood no spark of honour bides Why do we linger thus? I cannot rest Until the white rose that I wear be dy'd Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry's heart Three times did Richard make a lane to me, And thrice cried 'Courage, father! fight it out.' And full as oft came Edward to my side With purple falchion, painted to the hilt In blood of those that had encount'red him This cloth thou dipp'dst in blood of my sweet boy, And I with tears do wash the blood away But when we saw our sunshine made thy spring, And that thy summer bred us no increase, We set the axe to thy usurping root; And though the edge hath something hit ourselves, Yet know thou, since we have begun to strike, We'll never leave till we have hewn thee down, Or bath'd thy growing with our heated bloods And yet I know not how to get the crown, For many lives stand between me and home; And I- like one lost in a thorny wood That rents the thorns and is rent with the thorns, Seeking a way and straying from the way Not knowing how to find the open air, But toiling desperately to find it out- Torment myself to catch the English crown; And from that torment I will free myself Or hew my way out with a bloody axe Sail how thou canst, have wind and tide thy friend, This hand, fast wound about thy coal-black hair, Shall, whiles thy head is warm and new cut off, Write in the dust this sentence with thy blood Thou and thy brother both shall buy this treason Even with the dearest blood your bodies bear Be what they will, I heartily forgive 'em; Yet let 'em look they glory not in mischief Nor build their evils on the graves of great men, For then my guiltless blood must cry against 'em Yet I am richer than my base accusers That never knew what truth meant; I now seal it; And with that blood will make 'em one day groan fort By my soul, Your long coat, priest, protects you; thou shouldst feel My sword i' the life-blood of thee else To me you cannot reach you play the spaniel, And think with wagging of your tongue to win me; But whatsoe'er thou tak'st me for, I'm sure Thou hast a cruel nature and a bloody God shall be truly known; and those about her From her shall read the perfect ways of honour, And by those claim their greatness, not by blood What now, my son! Have I not ever said How that ambitious Constance would not cease Till she had kindled France and all the world Upon the right and party of her son? This might have been prevented and made whole With very easy arguments of love, Which now the manage of two kingdoms must With fearful bloody issue arbitrate These flags of France, that are advanced here Before the eye and prospect of your town, Have hither march'd to your endamagement; The cannons have their bowels full of wrath, And ready mounted are they to spit forth Their iron indignation 'gainst your walls; All preparation for a bloody siege And merciless proceeding by these French Confront your city's eyes, your winking gates; And but for our approach those sleeping stones That as a waist doth girdle you about By the compulsion of their ordinance By this time from their fixed beds of lime Had been dishabited, and wide havoc made For bloody power to rush upon your peace Their armours that march'd hence so silver-bright Hither return all gilt with Frenchmen's blood Exit BASTARD France, I am burn'd up with inflaming wrath, A rage whose heat hath this condition That nothing can allay, nothing but blood, The blood, and dearest-valu'd blood, of France Thy rage shall burn thee up, and thou shalt turn To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire How green you are and fresh in this old world! John lays you plots; the times conspire with you; For he that steeps his safety in true blood Shall find but bloody safety and untrue O, Sir, when he shall hear of your approach, If that young Arthur be not gone already, Even at that news he dies; and then the hearts Of all his people shall revolt from him, And kiss the lips of unacquainted change, And pick strong matter of revolt and wrath Out of the bloody fingers' ends of john O, save me, Hubert, save me! My eyes are out Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men This hand of mine Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand, Not painted with the crimson spots of blood We will not line his thin bestained cloak With our pure honours, nor attend the foot That leaves the print of blood where'er it walks Our discontented counties do revolt; Our people quarrel with obedience, Swearing allegiance and the love of soul To stranger blood, to foreign royalty Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury, And with a great heart heave away this storm; Commend these waters to those baby eyes That never saw the giant world enrag'd, Nor met with fortune other than at feasts, Full of warm blood, of mirth, of gossiping And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts, You bloody Neroes, ripping up the womb Of your dear mother England, blush for shame; For your own ladies and pale-visag'd maids, Like Amazons, come tripping after drums, Their thimbles into armed gauntlets change, Their needles to lances, and their gentle hearts To fierce and bloody inclination Within me is a hell; and there the poison Is as a fiend confin'd to tyrannize On unreprievable condemned blood For now, this fearful night, There is no stir or walking in the streets, And the complexion of the element In favor's like the work we have in hand, Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar, And in the spirit of men there is no blood If I myself, there is no hour so fit As Caesar's death's hour, nor no instrument Of half that worth as those your swords, made rich With the most noble blood of all this world Then burst his mighty heart, And, in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey's statue, Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood I should not urge thy duty past thy might; I know young bloods look for a time of rest Child Rowland to the dark tower came; His word was still Fie, foh, and fum! I smell the blood of a British man [aside] If I find him comforting the King, it will stuff his suspicion more fully.- I will persever in my course of loyalty, though the conflict be sore between that and my blood I myself reprehend his own person, for I am his Grace's farborough; but I would see his own person in flesh and blood Glory grows guilty of detested crimes, When, for fame's sake, for praise, an outward part, We bend to that the working of the heart; As I for praise alone now seek to spill The poor deer's blood that my heart means no ill Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O, let us embrace! As true we are as flesh and blood can be The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face; Young blood doth not obey an old decree Where we are There's daggers in men's smiles; the near in blood, The nearer bloody Ah, good father, Thou seest the heavens, as troubled with man's act, Threaten his bloody stage Stones have been known to move and trees to speak; Augures and understood relations have By maggot pies and choughs and rooks brought forth The secret'st man of blood Make all our trumpets speak, give them all breath, Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death O place, O form, How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit, Wrench awe from fools, and tie the wiser souls To thy false seeming! Blood, thou art blood O you beast! O faithless coward! O dishonest wretch! Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice? Is't not a kind of incest to take life From thine own sister's shame? What should I think? Heaven shield my mother play'd my father fair! For such a warped slip of wilderness Ne'er issu'd from his blood Bring me the fairest creature northward born, Where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles, And let us make incision for your love To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine Here is a letter, lady, The paper as the body of my friend, And every word in it a gaping wound Issuing life-blood Therefore, go; These griefs and losses have so bated me That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh To-morrow to my bloody creditor Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, courage yet! The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all, Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood Thy currish spirit Govern'd a wolf who, hang'd for human slaughter, Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet, And, whilst thou layest in thy unhallowed dam, Infus'd itself in thee; for thy desires Are wolfish, bloody, starv'd and ravenous What wicked and dissembling glass of mine Made me compare with Hermia's sphery eyne? But who is here? Lysander! on the ground! Dead, or asleep? I see no blood, no wound About the wood go swifter than the wind, And Helena of Athens look thou find; All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer, With sighs of love that costs the fresh blood dear This grisly beast, which Lion hight by name, The trusty Thisby, coming first by night, Did scare away, or rather did affright; And as she fled, her mantle she did fall; Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues; Let every eye negotiate for itself And trust no agent; for beauty is a witch Against whose charms faith melteth into blood O, my lord, wisdom and blood combating in so tender a body, we have ten proofs to one that blood hath the victory Friends all but now, even now, In quarter, and in terms like bride and groom Devesting them for bed; and then, but now (As if some planet had unwitted men), Swords out, and tilting one at other's breast, In opposition bloody Witness, you ever-burning lights above, You elements that clip us round about, Witness that here Iago doth give up The execution of his wit, hands, heart, To wrong'd Othello's service! Let him command, And to obey shall be in me remorse, What bloody business ever Dost thou hear, Iago? I will be found most cunning in my patience; But (dost thou hear?) most bloody Strumpet, I come! Forth of my heart those charms, thine eyes, are blotted; Thy bed lust-stain'd shall with lust's blood be spotted 'Tis not the trial of a woman's war, The bitter clamour of two eager tongues, Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain; The blood is hot that must be cool'd for this As for the rest appeal'd, It issues from the rancour of a villain, A recreant and most degenerate traitor; Which in myself I boldly will defend, And interchangeably hurl down my gage Upon this overweening traitor's foot To prove myself a loyal gentleman Even in the best blood chamber'd in his bosom Some of those seven are dried by nature's course, Some of those branches by the Destinies cut; But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloucester, One vial full of Edward's sacred blood, One flourishing branch of his most royal root, Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt; Is hack'd down, and his summer leaves all faded, By envy's hand and murder's bloody axe My brother Gloucester, plain well-meaning soul- Whom fair befall in heaven 'mongst happy souls!- May be a precedent and witness good That thou respect'st not spilling Edward's blood Now, afore God, 'tis shame such wrongs are borne In him, a royal prince, and many moe Of noble blood in this declining land Here come the Lords of Ross and Willoughby, Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste Tell Bolingbroke, for yon methinks he stands, That every stride he makes upon my land Is dangerous treason; he is come to open The purple testament of bleeding war; But ere the crown he looks for live in peace, Ten thousand bloody crowns of mothers' sons Shall ill become the flower of England's face, Change the complexion of her maid-pale peace To scarlet indignation, and bedew Her pastures' grass with faithful English blood Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind- What thou dost know of noble Gloucester's death; Who wrought it with the King, and who perform'd The bloody office of his timeless end Ere you were queen, ay, or your husband King, I was a pack-horse in his great affairs, A weeder-out of his proud adversaries, A liberal rewarder of his friends; To royalize his blood I spent mine own The curse my noble father laid on thee, When thou didst crown his warlike brows with paper And with thy scorns drew'st rivers from his eyes, And then to dry them gav'st the Duke a clout Steep'd in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland- His curses then from bitterness of soul Denounc'd against thee are all fall'n upon thee; And God, not we, hath plagu'd thy bloody deed What, were you snarling all before I came, Ready to catch each other by the throat, And turn you all your hatred now on me? Did York's dread curse prevail so much with heaven That Henry's death, my lovely Edward's death, Their kingdom's loss, my woeful banishment, Should all but answer for that peevish brat? Can curses pierce the clouds and enter heaven? Why then, give way, dull clouds, to my quick curses! Though not by war, by surfeit die your king, As ours by murder, to make him a king! Edward thy son, that now is Prince of Wales, For Edward our son, that was Prince of Wales, Die in his youth by like untimely violence! Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen, Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self! Long mayest thou live to wail thy children's death, And see another, as I see thee now, Deck'd in thy rights, as thou art stall'd in mine! Long die thy happy days before thy death; And, after many length'ned hours of grief, Die neither mother, wife, nor England's Queen! Rivers and Dorset, you were standers by, And so wast thou, Lord Hastings, when my son Was stabb'd with bloody daggers Accursed and unquiet wrangling days, How many of you have mine eyes beheld! My husband lost his life to get the crown; And often up and down my sons were toss'd For me to joy and weep their gain and loss; And being seated, and domestic broils Clean over-blown, themselves the conquerors Make war upon themselves-brother to brother, Blood to blood, self against self O Pomfret, Pomfret! O thou bloody prison, Fatal and ominous to noble peers! Within the guilty closure of thy walls RICHARD the Second here was hack'd to death; And for more slander to thy dismal seat, We give to thee our guiltless blood to drink Murder her brothers, and then marry her! Uncertain way of gain! But I am in So far in blood that sin will pluck on sin 'We smothered The most replenished sweet work of nature That from the prime creation e'er she framed.' Hence both are gone with conscience and remorse They could not speak; and so I left them both, To bear this tidings to the bloody King Dead life, blind sight, poor mortal living ghost, Woe's scene, world's shame, grave's due by life usurp'd, Brief abstract and record of tedious days, Rest thy unrest on England's lawful earth, [Sitting down] Unlawfully made drunk with innocent blood Nay, then indeed she cannot choose but hate thee, Having bought love with such a bloody spoil If I have kill'd the issue of your womb, To quicken your increase I will beget Mine issue of your blood upon your daughter In God's name cheerly on, courageous friends, To reap the harvest of perpetual peace By this one bloody trial of sharp war In brief, for so the season bids us be, Prepare thy battle early in the morning, And put thy fortune to the arbitrement Of bloody strokes and mortal-staring war God and your arms be prais'd, victorious friends; The day is ours, the bloody dog is dead Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean And if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl, For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring Tybalt, my cousin! O my brother's child! O Prince! O husband! O, the blood is spill'd Of my dear kinsman! Prince, as thou art true, For blood of ours shed blood of Montague A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse; Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub'd in blood, All in gore-blood Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood, Scratching her legs, that one shall swear she bleeds And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep, So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn Look thou be true; do not give dalliance Too much the rein; the strongest oaths are straw To th' fire i' th' blood O you gods, what a number of men eats Timon, and he sees 'em not! It grieves me to see so many dip their meat in one man's blood; and all the madness is, he cheers them up too Then, madam, stand resolv'd, but hope withal The self-same gods that arm'd the Queen of Troy With opportunity of sharp revenge Upon the Thracian tyrant in his tent May favour Tamora, the Queen of Goths- When Goths were Goths and Tamora was queen- To quit the bloody wrongs upon her foes Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, Blood and revenge are hammering in my head Hark, Tamora, the empress of my soul, Which never hopes more heaven than rests in thee- This is the day of doom for Bassianus; His Philomel must lose her tongue to-day, Thy sons make pillage of her chastity, And wash their hands in Bassianus' blood To prove thou hast a true divining heart, Aaron and thou look down into this den, And see a fearful sight of blood and death Lord Bassianus lies beray'd in blood, All on a heap, like to a slaughtered lamb, In this detested, dark, blood-drinking pit Upon his bloody finger he doth wear A precious ring that lightens all this hole, Which, like a taper in some monument, Doth shine upon the dead man's earthy cheeks, And shows the ragged entrails of this pit; So pale did shine the moon on Pyramus When he by night lay bath'd in maiden blood Let my tears stanch the earth's dry appetite; My sons' sweet blood will make it shame and blush In summer's drought I'll drop upon thee still; In winter with warm tears I'll melt the snow And keep eternal spring-time on thy face, So thou refuse to drink my dear sons' blood My lord, kneel down with me; Lavinia, kneel; And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector's hope; And swear with me- as, with the woeful fere And father of that chaste dishonoured dame, Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece' rape- That we will prosecute, by good advice, Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths, And see their blood or die with this reproach This one hand yet is left to cut your throats, Whiles that Lavinia 'tween her stumps doth hold The basin that receives your guilty blood Come, come, be every one officious To make this banquet, which I wish may prove More stern and bloody than the Centaurs' feast Peace, you ungracious clamours! Peace, rude sounds! Fools on both sides! Helen must needs be fair, When with your blood you daily paint her thus The general's disdain'd By him one step below, he by the next, That next by him beneath; so ever step, Exampl'd by the first pace that is sick Of his superior, grows to an envious fever Of pale and bloodless emulation There they stand yet; and modestly I think The fall of every Phrygian stone will cost A drop of Grecian blood ANTONIO.Th' offence is not of such a bloody nature; Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel Might well have given us bloody argument I hate ingratitude more in a man Than lying, vainness, babbling drunkenness, Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption Inhabits our frail blood Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this once, and let your flesh and blood obey it If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you have hurt me; I think you set nothing by a bloody coxcomb He makes a July's day short as December, And with his varying childness cures in me Thoughts that would thick my blood I am glad you did not nurse him; Though he does bear some signs of me, yet you Have too much blood in him A road near the SHEPHERD'S cottage Enter AUTOLYCUS, singing When daffodils begin to peer, With heigh! the doxy over the dale, Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year, For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale See, see; what a man you are now! There is no other way but to tell the King she's a changeling and none of your flesh and blood One of the prettiest touches of all, and that which angl'd for mine eyes- caught the water, though not the fish- was, when at the relation of the Queen's death, with the manner how she came to't bravely confess'd and lamented by the King, how attentivenes wounded his daughter; till, from one sign of dolour to another, she did with an 'Alas!'- I would fain say- bleed tears; for I am sure my heart wept blood Quotes for: Shakespeare Quotes
Source: Project Gutenburg Texts
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