The Works of Shakespeare, Svazek 3J. and P. Knapton, 1752 |
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Strana 28
... art is not paft power , nor you past cure . King . Art thou fo confident ? within what space Hop'st thou my cure ? Hel . The greatest grace lending grace , Ere twice the horses of the fun fhall bring Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring ...
... art is not paft power , nor you past cure . King . Art thou fo confident ? within what space Hop'st thou my cure ? Hel . The greatest grace lending grace , Ere twice the horses of the fun fhall bring Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring ...
Strana 39
... art thou good for nothing but taking up , and that thou'rt . fcarce worth . Par . Hadft thou not the privilege of antiquity upon thee- Laf . Do not plunge thyfelf too far in anger , left thou haften thy tryal ; which if , - -Lord have ...
... art thou good for nothing but taking up , and that thou'rt . fcarce worth . Par . Hadft thou not the privilege of antiquity upon thee- Laf . Do not plunge thyfelf too far in anger , left thou haften thy tryal ; which if , - -Lord have ...
Strana 40
... thou haft a fon fhall take this difgrace off me ; fcurvy , old , filthy , fcurvy Lord ! -well , I muft be patient ... art a general offence , and every man fhould . beat thee .. I think , thou waft created for men to breathe themselves ...
... thou haft a fon fhall take this difgrace off me ; fcurvy , old , filthy , fcurvy Lord ! -well , I muft be patient ... art a general offence , and every man fhould . beat thee .. I think , thou waft created for men to breathe themselves ...
Strana 42
... thou'rt a knave . Clo . You fhould have faid , Sir , before a knave , th'art a knave ; that's , before me th'art a knave : this had been truth , Sir . Par . Go to , thou art a witty fool , I have found thee . Clo . Did you find me in ...
... thou'rt a knave . Clo . You fhould have faid , Sir , before a knave , th'art a knave ; that's , before me th'art a knave : this had been truth , Sir . Par . Go to , thou art a witty fool , I have found thee . Clo . Did you find me in ...
Strana 50
William Shakespeare. Thou robb'ft me of a moiety : he was my son , But I do wash his name out of my blood , And thou art all my child . Towards Florence is he ? 2 Gen. Ay , Madam . Count . And to be a foldier ? 2 Gen. Such is his noble ...
William Shakespeare. Thou robb'ft me of a moiety : he was my son , But I do wash his name out of my blood , And thou art all my child . Towards Florence is he ? 2 Gen. Ay , Madam . Count . And to be a foldier ? 2 Gen. Such is his noble ...
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Strana 246 - Skulking in corners ? wishing clocks more swift ? Hours, minutes ? noon, midnight ? and all eyes blind With the pin and web,' but theirs, theirs only, That would unseen be wicked ? is this nothing ? Why, then the world, and all that's in't, is nothing; The covering sky is nothing ; Bohemia nothing; My wife is nothing; nor nothing have these nothings, If this be nothing.
Strana 376 - Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form; Then, have I reason to be fond of grief ? Fare you well: had you such a loss as I, I could give better comfort than you do.
Strana 133 - element,' but the word is over-worn. \Exit. Vio. This fellow is wise enough to play the fool ; And to do that well craves a kind of wit : He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye.
Strana 407 - This England never did, (nor never shall,) Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself. Now these her princes are come home again, Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them : Nought shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true.
Strana 97 - If music be the food of love, play on ; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die. That strain again ! it had a dying fall : O ! it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour.