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The private wound is deepest.


A discontented friend, grief-shot
With his unkindness.


If that the heavens do not their visible spirits
Send quickly down to tame these vile offences,
'Twill come,

Humanity must perforce prey on itself,
Like monsters of the deep.


A most acute juvenal; voluble and free of grace.

K. L. iv. 2

O heavens, can you hear a good man groan,
And not relent, or not compassion in him? Tit. And. iv. 1.
Broke oath on oath, committed wrong on wrong.

H.IV. PT. I. iv. 3

T.G. v. 4.



And you, good yeomen,

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear

That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.

H.V. iii. 1.

A violet in the youth of primy nature.
She is young, and apt;
Our own precedent passions do instruct us
What levity's in youth.

C. v. 1

L. L. iii. 1.

He capers, he dances, he has the eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holyday, he smells April and May: he will carry't, he will carry't; 'tis in his buttons; he will carry't. M. W. iii. 2. H. i. 3.

T. A. i. 1.

L. L. iv. 3

Young blood doth not obey an old decree.
For in her youth
There is a prone and speechless dialect,

Such as moves men; besides, she hath prosperous art
When she will play with reason and discourse,
And well she can persuade.

M. M. i. 3.


Briefly die their joys,

That place them on the truth of girls and boys. Cym. v. 5.
We were, fair queen,
Two lads that thought there was no more behind,
But such a day to-morrow as to-day,
And to be boy eternal.

A proper stripling, and an amorous!


When his headstrong riot hath no curb,
When rage and hot blood are his counsellors,
When means and lavish manners meet together;
O, with what wings shall his affections fly
Towards fronting peril and oppos'd decay.


He hears merry tales, and smiles not: I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. M.V. i. 2.




I protest, I take these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than the fools' zanies.

T. N. i. 5.


To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars,
My soul the faithfull'st offerings hath breath'd out,
That e'er devotion tender'd.

Thou unnecessary letter!

W. T. i. 2.

T. S. i. 2.


H. IV. PT. II. iv. 4.

T. N. v. 1.

K. L. ii. 2.

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