The plays of William Shakespeare ...: With the corrections and illustrations of various commentators, Volume 12 (Google eBook)

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C. and A. Conrad & Co., 1809 - Drama
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Page 272 - For nought so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give...
Page 42 - And, hark, what discord follows ; each thing meets In mere oppugnancy : the bounded waters Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores And make a sop of all this solid globe : Strength should be lord of imbecility, And the rude son should strike his father dead : Force should be right ; or rather, right and wrong, Between whose endless jar justice resides, Should lose their names, and so should justice too.
Page 267 - This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good night, good night! as sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart as that within my breast!
Page 243 - Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners' legs ; The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ; The traces, of the smallest spider's web ; The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams...
Page 294 - These violent delights have violent ends, And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, Which as they kiss consume : the sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness And in the taste confounds the appetite : Therefore love moderately ; long love doth so ; Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
Page 384 - A glooming peace this morning with it brings : The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head...
Page 323 - Wilt thou be gone ? it is not yet near day : It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear ; Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree : Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
Page 226 - That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him. Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew ; Nor did I wonder at the...
Page 264 - What's in a name ? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet; So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd, Retain that dear perfection which he owes Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name; And for that name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself.
Page 308 - Give me my Romeo: and when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.

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