Phrase search ignores case and repeated whitespace. All-words search finds whole words anywhere on the same page. OCR errors can affect results.
…as a fool, an ass, a brute. A village girl ! ANGELA. Blood will have blood, they say. SIR PERCY. You are my equal, Angela ! You shall be mine, mine, mine ! ANGELA. If I will not ?
… — What is your name, O fairest of women ? Bosom of gold ! Faultless your fame ! An aeon were shame Your beauty to hymn in ! Will you be mine, Mine and mine only ? Beauty divine, How I was lonely ! How I was mad ! Say, are you glad, Glad of me, happy here, Here in my arms ? I kiss you, I kiss you ! Say, is it bliss, you Spirit of holiness ? Holy I hold you ! Swift as a rapier Stabbed me your charms, Broken with lowliness, Smitten with rapture : — All is so mixed ;
…s are like young rain. ANGELA. The slobbery kisses of virginity. He shall soon know these calculated, keen, Intense, important kisses, — mine ! Hell’s worm ! MOLLY. Yes, do not leave me. Let us away now ! No, I must tell them, fetch my —
…od be with you ! SIR PERCY. Till we meet again. MOLLY. At moonrise. SIR PERCY. At your door. ANGELA. At moonset he shall crawl away from mine. The dog ! I hate him ! So much the more sure
…rees. She suffers the torments of hell.) ANGELA, While the duet continues. Ah ! if there were a devil to buy souls, Of if I had not sold mine ! Quick bargain, God ! Hell catch the jade ! Blister her fat red cheeks ! Rot her snub nose ! Poison devour her guts ! Wither her fresh clean face with old grey scabs, And venomous ulcers gnaw the baby breasts ! Vermin upon her ! Infamous drab ! Gr ! Gr ! I would I had her home to torture her. I would dig out those amorous eyes with gimlets,
…despoil her ; these shall ruin him. Yes, I shall clutch him to these sagging breasts Stained, bruised, — enough ! — and take his life in mine — Ugh ! pleasure of Hell ! Sir Percy Percivale, Here is a strumpet. Ha ! have you a sword ? Enough. I am dressed. I am lovely, have communed With my dark heart : I see my way to it : — Oh joy ! joy ! joy ! — Hortense, these candles out ! The maid blows out the mirror candles. I will go down. Prepare my scented paper, My rosy wax against my coming here — When, girl ? I’ th’ morn, i’ th’ morn ! When else ? …