# 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

Twelfth Night
[I, 3]

Sir Toby Belch

116

What a plague means my niece, to take the death of
her brother thus? I am sure care's an enemy to life.

2

Twelfth Night
[I, 4]

Viola

265

Sure, my noble lord,
If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow
As it is spoke, she never will admit me.

3

Twelfth Night
[I, 5]

Feste

323

Wit, an't be thy will, put me into good fooling!
Those wits, that think they have thee, do very oft
prove fools; and I, that am sure I lack thee, may
pass for a wise man: for what says Quinapalus?
'Better a witty fool, than a foolish wit.'
[Enter OLIVIA with MALVOLIO]
God bless thee, lady!

4

Twelfth Night
[I, 5]

Olivia

498

Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when
the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.

5

Twelfth Night
[II, 2]

Viola

674

I left no ring with her: what means this lady?
Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her!
She made good view of me; indeed, so much,
That sure methought her eyes had lost her tongue,
For she did speak in starts distractedly.
She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion
Invites me in this churlish messenger.
None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none.
I am the man: if it be so, as 'tis,
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.
How easy is it for the proper-false
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we!
For such as we are made of, such we be.
How will this fadge? my master loves her dearly;
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.
What will become of this? As I am man,
My state is desperate for my master's love;
As I am woman,—now alas the day!—
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!
O time! thou must untangle this, not I;
It is too hard a knot for me to untie!

6

Twelfth Night
[III, 4]

Maria

1551

He's coming, madam; but in very strange manner. He
is, sure, possessed, madam.

7

Twelfth Night
[III, 4]

Maria

1554

No. madam, he does nothing but smile: your
ladyship were best to have some guard about you, if
he come; for, sure, the man is tainted in's wits.

8

Twelfth Night
[III, 4]

Viola

1771

You mistake, sir; I am sure no man hath any quarrel
to me: my remembrance is very free and clear from
any image of offence done to any man.