A Select Collection of Old Plays, Svazek 2

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R. Dodsley in Pall-Mall., 1744

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Strana 121 - And in the day, when he shall walk abroad, Like sylvan nymphs my pages shall be clad; My men, like satyrs grazing on the lawns, Shall with their goat-feet dance an antic hay...
Strana 189 - And there, in mire and puddle have I stood This ten days' space ; and lest that I should sleep, One plays continually upon a drum. They give me bread and water, being a king ; So that, for want of sleep and sustenance, My mind's distemper'd, and my body's numb'd, And whether I have limbs or no, I know not.
Strana 192 - And, seeing there was no place to mount up higher, Why should I grieve at my declining fall? — Farewell, fair queen; weep not for MOrtimer, That scorns the world, and, as a traveller, Goes to discover countries yet unknown.
Strana 255 - I am never better than when I am mad: then methinks I am a brave fellow; then I do wonders : but reason abuseth me, and there's the torment, there's the hell.
Strana 204 - It was, my liege, the prince of Portingale. KING. But what was he that on the other side Held him by th' arm, as partner of the prize?
Strana 140 - Tis not a black coat and a little band, A velvet-caped coat, faced before with serge, And smelling to a nosegay all the day, Or holding of a napkin in your hand, Or saying a long grace at a table's end, Or making low legs to a nobleman, Or looking downward with your eyelids close, And saying, " Truly, an't may please your honour...
Strana 120 - Is as Elysium to a new-come soul: Not that I love the city or the men, But that it harbours him I hold so dear, The king, upon whose bosom let me die, And with the world be still at enmity.
Strana 229 - And to entrap thy life this train is laid. Advise thee therefore, be not credulous: This is devised to endanger thee...
Strana 251 - Was I so mad to bid you light your torches now ? Light me your torches at the mid of noon, Whenas the sun-god rides in all his glory ; Light me your torches then.
Strana 172 - Mortimer! who talks of Mortimer? Who wounds me with the name of Mortimer, That bloody man? — Good father, on thy lap Lay I this head, laden with mickle care. O, might I never ope these eyes again, Never again lift up this drooping head, O, never more lift up this dying heart!

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