A concordance to Shakespeare: suited to all the editions, in which the distinguished and parallel passages in the plays of that justly admired writer are methodically arranged. To which are added, three hundred notes and illustrations, entirely new (Google eBook)
printed for G.G.J. and J. Robinson, 1787 - 470 pages
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All's Antony and Cleopatra beauty blood breath Brutus cheeks Coriolanus crown Cymbeline dead death deeds dost doth earth ends eyes fair fame father fear fense fire fool fortune foul friends gentle Gentlemen of Verona give grace grief Hamlet hand hath hear heart heaven Henry IV Henry V. A. Henry VIII honour Johnson Julius Cæsar King John Lear live look lord Love's Labour Lost means Measure for Measure Merchant of Venice Midsummer Night's Dream nature never noble o'er Othello passage peace pity poor prince queen Richard Richard III Romeo and Juliet Shakespeare shew sleep smile sorrow soul speak spirit stand Steevens sweet sword tears Tempest thee thine thing thou art thou hast thought Timon of Athens tongue Twelfth Night unto valour villain virtue Warburton weep wife wind Winter's Tale word wounds wretched youth
Page 343 - Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid. Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut , Made by the joiner squirrel , or old grub , Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers. And in this state she gallops night by night Through lovers...
Page 67 - To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks, Infusing him with self and vain conceit, As if this flesh which walls about our life Were brass impregnable, and...
Page 162 - O God! methinks it were a happy life, To be no better than a homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run, How many make the hour full complete; How many hours bring about the day; How many days will finish up the year; How many years a mortal man may live.
Page 298 - Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass: and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ. Yet cannot you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe?
Page 14 - Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition : By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by it ? Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee ; Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Page 139 - element,' but the word is over-worn. \Exit. Vio. This fellow is wise enough to play the fool ; And to do that well craves a kind of wit : He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye.
Page 61 - 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.
Page 463 - His nature is too noble for the world : He would not flatter Neptune for his trident, Or Jove for his power to thunder. His heart's his mouth : What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent ; And, being angry, does forget that ever He heard the name of death.
Page 94 - True, I talk of dreams ; Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.