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That book in many's eyes doth share the glory
That in gold clasps locks in the golden story.

— Romeo and Juliet, Act I Scene 3

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1-6 of 6 total

KEYWORD: pretty

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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	Richard III [I, 1]	Richard III (Duke of Gloucester)	93	Even so; an't please your worship, Brakenbury, You may partake of any thing we say: We speak no treason, man: we say the king Is wise and virtuous, and his noble queen Well struck in years, fair, and not jealous; We say that Shore's wife hath a pretty foot, A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue; And that the queen's kindred are made gentle-folks: How say you sir? Can you deny all this?
2	Richard III [I, 3]	Richard III (Duke of Gloucester)	638	The curse my noble father laid on thee, When thou didst crown his warlike brows with paper And with thy scorns drew'st rivers from his eyes, And then, to dry them, gavest the duke a clout Steep'd in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland— His curses, then from bitterness of soul Denounced against thee, are all fall'n upon thee; And God, not we, hath plagued thy bloody deed.
3	Richard III [II, 2]	Duchess of York	1278	My pretty cousins, you mistake me much; I do lament the sickness of the king. As loath to lose him, not your father's death; It were lost sorrow to wail one that's lost.
4	Richard III [II, 4]	Duchess of York	1510	How, my pretty York? I pray thee, let me hear it.
5	Richard III [II, 4]	Duchess of York	1515	I pray thee, pretty York, who told thee this?
6	Richard III [IV, 1]	Queen Elizabeth	2571	Stay, yet look back with me unto the Tower. Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes Whom envy hath immured within your walls! Rough cradle for such little pretty ones! Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow For tender princes, use my babies well! So foolish sorrow bids your stones farewell.

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