The Works of William Shakespeare: The taming of the shrew. All's well that ends well. Twelfth night. The winter's tale (Google eBook)

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Macmillan, 1863
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Page 98 - Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee, And for thy maintenance commits his body To painful labour both by sea and land, To watch the night in storms, the day in cold, Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe; And craves no other tribute at thy hands But love, fair looks and true obedience; Too little payment for so great a debt.
Page 383 - O Proserpina, For the flowers now that frighted thou let'st fall From Dis's waggon! daffodils That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses, That die unmarried, ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength a malady Most incident to maids; bold oxlips and The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, The flower-de-luce being one!
Page 247 - O mistress mine, where are you roaming? O stay and hear ; your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low : Trip no further, pretty sweeting ; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know. What is love ? 'tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter ; What's to come is still unsure : In delay there lies no plenty ; Then come kiss me...
Page 374 - When daffodils begin to peer, With heigh ! the doxy over the dale, Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year; For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale. The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, With heigh ! the sweet birds, O, how they sing! Doth set my pugging tooth on edge ; For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. The lark, that...
Page 184 - The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together : our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our virtues.
Page 254 - ... away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid ; Fly away, fly away, breath ; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O ! prepare it ; My part of death no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown ; Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown : A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O ! where Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there.
Page 141 - They say, miracles are past; and we -have our philosophical persons, to make modern and familiar things, supernatural and causeless. Hence is it, that we make trifles of terrors; ensconcing ourselves into seeming knowledge, when we should submit ourselves to an unknown fear.

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