[juː] or [ju]
(dat. & obj.) The pronoun of the second person, in the nominative, dative, and objective case, indicating the person or persons addressed. See the Note under Ye.
Edited by Carlos
pron. 2d pers. pron. pl. but also used as singular.—pron.pl. You′-uns a provincial form for you you ones.—You're another the vulgar form of tu quoque effective in vituperation but not an argument.
Typed by Freddie
- Perhaps you had better go after my friends at once, because the weather is warm, and I can not 'keep' long. Mark Twain. The Innocents Abroad.
- You have behaved very ill to me, said his lordship. Harriette Wilson. The Memoirs of Harriette Wilson.
- You ought not to have come today, she said in an altered voice; and suddenly she turned, flung her arms about him and pressed her lips to his. Edith Wharton. The Age of Innocence.
- You will wring no more hearts as you wrung mine. Arthur Conan Doyle. The Return of Sherlock Holmes.
- Father's a sweeter singer than ever; you'd never have forgotten it, if you'd aheard him just now. Charles Dickens. Little Dorrit.
- But please to tell me at once what you have done. George Eliot. Middlemarch.
- Still, he said, I do not comprehend you. Plato. The Republic.
- Your circle is rather different from ours. George Eliot. Middlemarch.
- Bring out your vouchers, and don't talk Jerusalem palaver. Charles Dickens. Our Mutual Friend.
- Now, Mr. Hilton Cubitt, please continue your most interesting statement. Arthur Conan Doyle. The Return of Sherlock Holmes.
- Have you found your first day's work harder than you expected? Charlotte Bronte. Jane Eyre.
- Where's your friend? Charles Dickens. Our Mutual Friend.
- Which means, I suppose, that you are not quite clear about your case? Arthur Conan Doyle. The Return of Sherlock Holmes.
- But men of your character are mostly so independent. Thomas Hardy. The Return of the Native.
- I have something beyond this, but I will call it a defect, not an endowment, if it leads me to misery, while ye are happy. Mary Shelley. The Last Man.
- I will discipline my sorrowing heart to sympathy in your joys; I will be happy, because ye are so. Mary Shelley. The Last Man.
- Ye couldn't treat a poor sinner, now, to a bit of sermon, could ye,--eh? Harriet Beecher Stowe. Uncle Tom's Cabin.
- I see what ye mean now. Charles Dickens. Our Mutual Friend.
- Ye can do not mich, poor young lass! Charlotte Bronte. Shirley.
- The Lord bless ye! Charles Dickens. Our Mutual Friend.
- Lord bless ye, Tom, ye needn't break all the glasses! Harriet Beecher Stowe. Uncle Tom's Cabin.
Typed by Cedric