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art thou Banquo Bardolph bear better Biron blood Boyet brother Claud Claudio comes cousin daughter dear death dost thou doth ducats Duke Enter Exeunt Exit eyes fair Falstaff father fear fool Ford gentle gentleman give grace hand hath hear heart heaven Hermia hither honour Host Isab Kath king knave lady Laun Leon Leonato live look lord Lucio Lysander Macbeth Macd Mach madam maid Malvolio marry master master doctor mistress Moth never night noble Northumberland pardon peace Pedro Petruchio Poins Pompey pr'ythee pray prince Proteus Re-enter SCENE Shal signior sir John sir John Falstaff soul speak swear sweet tell thee there's thine thing thou art thou hast thou shalt Thurio tongue Tranio troth true unto villain What's wife wilt word
Strana 255 - With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances ; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side, His youthful hose well...
Strana 12 - A strange fish! Were I in England now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver: there would this monster make a man; any strange beast there makes a man: when they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian. Legged like a man! and his fins like arms! Warm, o
Strana 168 - Swifter than the moon's sphere; And I serve the fairy queen, To dew her orbs upon the green. The cowslips tall her pensioners be: In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favours, In those freckles live their savours: I must go seek some dewdrops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
Strana 88 - Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid ; Fly away, fly away, breath ; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it ! My part of death, no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown ; Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown : A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O, where Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there ! Duke.
Strana 462 - And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along. Duch. Alas ! poor Richard ! where rides he the while ? York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men, After a well-graced actor leaves the stage, Are idly bent on him that enters next, Thinking his prattle to be tedious : Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes Did scowl on Richard ; no man cried, God save him...