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For the rain it raineth every day.

      — Twelfth Night, Act V Scene 1

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1-6 of 6 total

KEYWORD: got

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# Result number

Work The work is either a play, poem, or sonnet. The sonnets are treated as single work with 154 parts.

Character Indicates who said the line. If it's a play or sonnet, the character name is "Poet."

Line Shows where the line falls within the work.

The numbering is not keyed to any copyrighted numbering system found in a volume of collected works (Arden, Oxford, etc.) The numbering starts at the beginning of the work, and does not restart for each scene.

Text The line's full text, with keywords highlighted within it, unless highlighting has been disabled by the user.

1

Coriolanus
[I, 3]

Volumnia

391

Indeed, you shall not.
Methinks I hear hither your husband's drum,
See him pluck Aufidius down by the hair,
As children from a bear, the Volsces shunning him:
Methinks I see him stamp thus, and call thus:
'Come on, you cowards! you were got in fear,
Though you were born in Rome:' his bloody brow
With his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes,
Like to a harvest-man that's task'd to mow
Or all or lose his hire.

2

Coriolanus
[II, 1]

Volumnia

1045

Titus TITUS writes, they fought together, but
Aufidius got off.

3

Coriolanus
[II, 2]

Coriolanus

1309

Your horror's pardon:
I had rather have my wounds to heal again
Than hear say how I got them.

4

Coriolanus
[II, 3]

Coriolanus

1475

What must I say?
'I Pray, sir'—Plague upon't! I cannot bring
My tongue to such a pace:—'Look, sir, my wounds!
I got them in my country's service, when
Some certain of your brethren roar'd and ran
From the noise of our own drums.'

5

Coriolanus
[III, 3]

Junius Brutus

2341

In this point charge him home, that he affects
Tyrannical power: if he evade us there,
Enforce him with his envy to the people,
And that the spoil got on the Antiates
Was ne'er distributed.
[Enter an AEdile]
What, will he come?

6

Coriolanus
[V, 4]

Messenger

3766

Sir, if you'ld save your life, fly to your house:
The plebeians have got your fellow-tribune
And hale him up and down, all swearing, if
The Roman ladies bring not comfort home,
They'll give him death by inches.

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