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Pagina 62 - His steeds to water at those springs On chalic'd flowers that lies ; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes ; With every thing that pretty bin : My lady sweet, arise ; Arise, arise. Song. Act n. Scene 3. Slander, Whose edge is sharper than the sword ; whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile. Weariness Act
Pagina 22 - Ibid. O, it is excellent To have a giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous To use it like a giant. Ibid. But man, proud man ! Dress'd in a little brief authority ; Most ignorant of what he's most assur'd, His glassy essence,—like an angry ape,— Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven,
Pagina 6 - of the world ! the paragon of animals ! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust ? man delights not me, no, nor woman neither ; though, by your smiling, you seem to say so. Ibid. Give us a taste of your quality. Ibid. They are the abstract, and brief chronicles of the
Pagina 95 - Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, And hate for arts that caused himself to rise ; Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer.
Pagina 38 - Scene 3. My way of life Is fall'n into the sear—the yellow leaf; And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have ; but, in their stead, Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honour, breath, Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. Act v. Scene 3.
Pagina 59 - Scene 2. Cowards die many times before their deaths ; The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear, Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come, when it will come. Ibid.
Pagina 119 - When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away ? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom—is to die ! RETALIATION.
Pagina 85 - It must be so—Plato, thou reason's! well— Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality ? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror Of falling into nought ? Why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 'T is the divinity that stirs within us; 'T is heaven itself that points
Pagina 32 - Ibid. I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. Ibid. You take my house, when you do take the prop That doth sustain my house; you take my life, When you do take the means whereby I live. Ibid. He is well paid, that is well satisfied.
Pagina 117 - THE DESERTED VILLAGE. How often have I paused on every charm,— The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, The never failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made. Lines 9-14.

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