The plays of William Shakespeare: With the corrections and illustrations of various commentators, Volume 8 (Google eBook)

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C. and A. Conrad, 1806
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Page 40 - This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, Fear'd by their breed and famous by their birth...
Page 118 - And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along. Duch. Alas, poor Richard ! where rides he the while ? York. As, in a theatre, the eyes of men, After a well-graced actor leaves the stage, Are idly bent on him that enters next, Thinking his prattle to be tedious ; Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes Did scowl on Richard; no man cried, God save him...
Page 81 - Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood With solemn reverence : throw away respect, Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty, For you have but mistook me all this while: I live with bread like you, feel want, Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus, How can you say to me I am a king?
Page 317 - Honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on, how then ? Can honour set to a leg ? No. Or an arm ? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then ? No. What is honour? A word. What is in that word, honour ? What is that honour ? Air. A trim reckoning ! Who hath it ? He that died o
Page 149 - Whose arms were moulded in their mothers' womb To chase these pagans in those holy fields Over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail'd For our advantage on the bitter cross.
Page 79 - s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs ; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let's choose executors, and talk of wills...
Page 80 - All murder'd: for within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court, and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp, Allowing him a breath, a little scene, To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks...
Page 176 - Out of my grief and my impatience, Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what, He should, or he should not ; for he made me mad, To see him shine so brisk and smell so sweet, And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman...
Page 146 - And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother's blood from thy hand. When thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength: A fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth.
Page 16 - My dear, dear lord, The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation ; that away, Men are but gilded loam or painted clay.

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