# 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 Andrew Aguecheek

222

As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the
degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare
with an old man.

2

Twelfth Night
[I, 3]

Sir Toby Belch

230

Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have
these gifts a curtain before 'em? are they like to
take dust, like Mistress Mall's picture? why dost
thou not go to church in a galliard and come home in
a coranto? My very walk should be a jig; I would not
so much as make water but in a sink-a-pace. What
dost thou mean? Is it a world to hide virtues in?
I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy
leg, it was formed under the star of a galliard.

3

Twelfth Night
[I, 3]

Sir Toby Belch

241

What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus?

4

Twelfth Night
[II, 5]

Fabian

1059

O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock
of him: how he jets under his advanced plumes!

5

Twelfth Night
[II, 5]

Malvolio

1152

M,—but then there is no consonancy in the sequel;
that suffers under probation A should follow but O does.

6

Twelfth Night
[III, 1]

Olivia

1348

Give me leave, beseech you. I did send,
After the last enchantment you did here,
A ring in chase of you: so did I abuse
Myself, my servant and, I fear me, you:
Under your hard construction must I sit,To force that on you, in a shameful cunning,
Which you knew none of yours: what might you think?
Have you not set mine honour at the stake
And baited it with all the unmuzzled thoughts
That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving
Enough is shown: a cypress, not a bosom,
Hideth my heart. So, let me hear you speak.