The Works of Shakespeare: in Eight Volumes, Volume 8 (Google eBook)

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H. Woodfall, 1767
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Page 235 - tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now ; if it be not now, yet it will come : the readiness is all : Since no man, of aught he leaves, knows, what is't to leave betimes ?
Page 21 - Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers. And in this state she gallops night by night Through lovers...
Page 127 - I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul ; freeze thy young blood ; Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres...
Page 181 - Tis now the very witching time of night When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood, And do such bitter business as the day Would quake to look on.
Page 189 - Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed, And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes? You cannot call it love, for at your age The hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble, And waits upon the judgment; and what judgment Would step from this to this?
Page 225 - I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come ; make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing. Hor. What's that, my lord? Ham. Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this fashion i
Page 164 - As made the things more rich; their perfume lost, Take these again; for to the noble mind Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
Page 265 - Their dearest action in the tented field, And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to feats of broil and battle, And therefore little shall I grace my cause In speaking for myself.
Page 35 - Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone: And yet no further than a wanton's bird; Who lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty.
Page 30 - Would through the airy region stream so bright, That birds would sing, and think it were not night. See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek ! Jul.

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