The Dramatic Souvenir: Being Literary and Graphical Illustrations of Shakespeare and Other Celebrated English Dramatists. Embellished with Upwards of Two Hundred Engravings on Wood (Google eBook)

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C. Tilt, 1833 - 204 pages
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Page 69 - I will in Cassio's lodging lose this napkin, And let him find it. Trifles light as air, Are, to the jealous, confirmations strong As proofs of holy writ.
Page 31 - For heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound! Nay, hear me, Hubert ! drive these men away, And I will sit as quiet as a lamb...
Page 154 - Be to her virtues very kind ; Be to her faults a little blind ; Let all her ways be unconfin'd ; And clap your padlock on her mind.
Page 63 - Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee: I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Page 65 - Horatio ; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy : he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now how abhorred in 170 my imagination it is ! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft.
Page 100 - Dr. Swift had been observing once to Mr. Gay, what an odd pretty sort of a thing a Newgate Pastoral might make. Gay was inclined to try at such a thing for some time; but afterwards thought it would be better to write a comedy on the same plan. This was what gave rise to the Beggar's Opera.
Page 64 - Venus and Adonis ; but his Lucrece, and his tragedy of Hamlet Prince of Denmarke, have it in them to please the wiser sort, 1598.
Page 40 - How would it have joyed brave Talbot (the terror of the French) to think that after he had lain two hundred years in his tomb, he should triumph again on the stage, and have his bones new embalmed with the tears of ten thousand spectators at least (at several times) who in the tragedian that represents his person, imagine they behold him fresh bleeding...
Page 33 - All murder'd: for within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court, and there the antick sits, Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp...
Page 21 - Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, And after one hour more 'twill be eleven, And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe, And then from hour to hour we rot and rot, And thereby hangs a tale.

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