Messenger

Madam, there is alighted at your gate
A young Venetian, one that comes before
To signify th’ approaching of his lord,
From whom he bringeth sensible regreets;
To wit (besides commends and courteous breath),
Gifts of rich value; yet I have not seen
So likely an ambassador of love.
A day in April never came so sweet,
To show how costly summer was at hand,
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Hastings
Cannot my Lord Stanley sleep these tedious nights?
Messenger
So it appears by that I have to say.
First, he commends him to your noble self.
Hastings
What then?

To fly the boar before the boar pursues
Were to incense the boar to follow us
And make pursuit where he did mean no chase.
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Messenger
My lord, a prize, a prize! Here’s the Lord
Saye, which sold the towns in France, he that
made us pay one-and-twenty fifteens, and one
shilling to the pound, the last subsidy.
Enter George with the Lord Saye.

Thou hast most traitorously corrupted
the youth of the realm in erecting
a grammar school

Cade
Well,
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King John
They burn in indignation. I repent.
There is no sure foundation set on blood,
No certain life achieved by others’ death.
Enter Messenger.
A fearful eye thou hast. Where is that blood
That I have seen inhabit in those cheeks?
So foul a sky clears not without a storm.
Pour down thy weather: how goes all in France?
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Duke, as Friar
And here comes Claudio’s pardon.
Messenger, giving Provost a paper
My lord hath sent you this note, and by me
this further charge: that you swerve not from
the smallest article of it, neither in time, matter,
or other circumstance. Good morrow, for, as
I take it,
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Messenger
Edmund is dead, my lord.
Albany
That’s but a trifle here.—
You lords and noble friends, know our intent:
What comfort to this great decay may come
Shall be applied. For us, we will resign,
During the life of this old Majesty,
To him our absolute power; you to your rights,
With boot and such addition as your Honors
Have more than merited.
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Benedick
Soft and fair, friar.—Which is Beatrice?
Beatrice, unmasking
I answer to that name. What is your will?
Benedick
Do not you love me?
Beatrice
Why no, no more than reason.
Benedick
Why then, your uncle and the Prince and Claudio
Have been deceived.
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Jailer
Come, sir, are you ready for death?
Posthumus
Over-roasted rather; ready long ago.
Jailer
Hanging is the word, sir. If you be ready for
that, you are well cooked.
Posthumus
So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators,
the dish pays the shot.

I am merrier to die than thou art to live.
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Messenger
Gracious my lord,
I should report that which I say I saw,
But know not how to do ’t.
Macbeth
Well, say, sir.

I pull in resolution and begin
To doubt th’ equivocation of the fiend,
That lies like truth.

Messenger
As I did stand my watch upon the hill,
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