The Plays of William Shakespeare ...: Pericles. King Lear. Romeo and Juliet (Google eBook)

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T. Bensley, 1800
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Page 93 - Thou must be patient; we came crying hither. Thou know'st, the first time that we smell the air, We wawl, and cry: I will preach to thee; mark me. Glo. Alack, alack the day ! Lear. When we are born, we cry, that we are come To this great stage of fools...
Page 16 - Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid : Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub, Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers. And in this state she gallops night by night Through lovers...
Page 52 - O! reason not the need; our basest beggars Are in the poorest thing superfluous: Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man's life is cheap as beast's. Thou art a lady; If only to go warm were gorgeous, Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st, Which scarcely keeps thee warm.
Page 97 - Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath. Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty: Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yet Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks. And death's pale flag is not advanced there.
Page 118 - KENT. Vex not his ghost: O, let him pass! he hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer.
Page 19 - O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear...
Page 116 - I'd use them so That heaven's vault should crack. She's gone for ever ! I know when one is dead, and when one lives ; She's dead as earth.
Page 46 - These violent delights have violent ends, And in their triumph die; like fire and powder, Which, as they kiss, consume...
Page 98 - tis fittest. Cor. How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty? Lear. You do me wrong, to take me out o' the grave. Thou art a soul in bliss ; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead.
Page 66 - Wilt thou be gone ? it is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

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