The Works of Shakespeare: in Eight Volumes, Volume 1 (Google eBook)

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H. Woodfall, 1767
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Page 28 - All things in common nature should produce Without sweat or endeavour : treason, felony, Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine, Would I not have; but nature should bring forth, .Of its own kind, all foison, all abundance, To feed my innocent people.
Page 86 - Things base and vile, holding no quantity, Love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind; And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind.
Page 42 - Hence, bashful cunning; And prompt me, plain and holy innocence ! I am your wife, if you will marry me ; If not, I'll die your maid : to be your fellow You may deny me ; but I'll be your servant Whether you will or no.
Page 63 - And mine shall. Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling Of their afflictions, and shall not myself One of their kind, that relish all as sharply, Passion as they, be kindlier mov'd than thou art?
Page 95 - Since once I sat upon a promontory, And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's back, Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath, That the rude sea grew civil at her song ; And certain stars shot madly from their spheres, To hear the sea-maid's music.
Page 96 - Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell : It fell upon a little western flower, — Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, — And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
Page 148 - If we shadows have offended. Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber'd here, While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend: If you pardon, we will mend.
Page 35 - Were I in England now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver. There would this monster make a man. Any strange beast there makes a man. When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian.
Page 64 - Some heavenly music, (which even now I do) To work mine end upon their senses, that This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, And, deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book.

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