THE HISTORICAL SHAKSPEARIAN READER:COMPRISING THE "HISTORIES," OR, "CHRONICLE PLAYS" OF SHAKSPEARE CAREFULLY EXPERGATED AND REVISED, WITH INTRODUCTORY AND EXPLANATORY NOTES.

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Strana 216 - Creatures that by a rule in nature teach The act of order to a peopled kingdom. They have a king and officers of sorts ; Where some, like magistrates, correct at home, Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad, Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds, Which pillage they with merry march bring home To the tent-royal of their emperor ; Who, busied in his majesty, surveys The singing masons building roofs of gold, The civil...
Strana 53 - 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 224 - Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more ; Or close the wall up with our English dead ! In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility : But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger ; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood...
Strana 399 - Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time Into this breathing world scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them— Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun And descant on mine own deformity. And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover To entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Strana 224 - Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war! — And you, good yeomen, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding : which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
Strana 489 - Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! This is the state of man : to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honors thick upon him : The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ; And, — when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, — nips his root, And then he falls, as I do.
Strana 180 - Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast Seal up the shipboy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge ; And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With deaf ning clamours in the slippery clouds, That, with the hurly, death itself awakes...
Strana 97 - 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-grac'd 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 ; No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home: But dust was thrown upon his sacred head : Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off, — His face...
Strana 414 - Lord ! methought, what pain it was to drown ! What dreadful noise of water in mine ears ! What sights of ugly death within mine eyes ! Methought, I saw a thousand fearful wrecks ; A thousand men, that fishes gnaw'd upon, Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea ; Some lay in dead men's skulls ; and in those holes Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept (As 'twere in scorn of eyes, ) reflecting gems, That woo'd...
Strana 489 - But far beyond ray depth : my high-blown pride At length broke under me ; and now has left me, Weary, and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp, and glory of this world, I hate ye : I feel my heart new open'd. O, how wretched Is that poor man, that hangs on princes...

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