The Plays and Poems of William Shakspeare, Volume 1 (Google eBook)

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R. C. and J. Rivington, 1821
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Page 236 - tis a common proof, That lowliness is young ambition's ladder, Whereto the climber upward turns his face; But when he once attains the upmost round, He then unto the ladder turns his back, Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees By which he did ascend.
Page 476 - For though the Poet's matter Nature be His art doth give the fashion. And that he Who casts to write a living line, must sweat (Such as thine are), and strike the second heat Upon the Muses...
Page 62 - Shakespeare is, above all writers, at least above all modern writers, the poet of nature ; the poet that holds up to his readers a faithful mirror of manners and of life.
Page 449 - I loved the man, and do honour his memory, on this side idolatry, as much as any. He was, indeed, honest, and of. an open and free nature, had an excellent fancy, brave notions, and gentle expressions ; wherein he flowed with that facility, that sometimes it was necessary he should be stopped : Snfflaminandus erat, as Augustus said of Haterius.
Page 484 - WHAT needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones, The labour of an age in piled stones, Or that his hallowed relics should be hid Under a star-ypointing pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a live-long monument. For whilst to th...
Page xlvi - I behold like a Spanish great galleon and an English man-of-war. Master Coleridge, like the former, was built far higher in learning, solid, but slow in his performances. CVL, with the English man-of-war, lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack about, and take advantage of all winds, by the quickness of his wit and invention.
Page 459 - Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive Against thy mother aught; leave her to heaven, And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge To prick and sting her.
Page 473 - To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy book and fame, While I confess thy writings to be such As neither man nor muse can praise too much.
Page 64 - Shakespeare has no heroes; his scenes are occupied only by men who act and speak as the reader thinks that he should himself have spoken or acted on the same occasion: even where the agency is supernatural, the dialogue is level with life.
Page 454 - And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress

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