Webster and Tourneur

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American Book Company, 1912 - 464 pages

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Page 126 - ... CALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men. Call unto his funeral dole The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm, And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm; But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men, For with his nails he'll dig them up again.
Page 218 - I'd not be tedious to you. Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength Must pull down heaven upon me. Yet stay, heaven gates are not so highly arch'd As princes' palaces ; they that enter there Must go upon their knees. Come, violent death, Serve for Mandragora to make me sleep. Go tell my brothers ; when I am laid out, They then may feed in quiet. [They strangle her, kneeling.
Page 201 - I know not Which is best, to see you dead, or part with you. — Farewell, boy: Thou art happy that thou hast not understanding To know thy misery; for all our wit And reading brings us to a truer sense Of sorrow. — In the eternal church, sir, I do hope we shall not part thus.
Page 158 - Are forc'd to express our violent passions In riddles and in dreams, and leave the path Of simple virtue, which was never made To seem the thing it is not.
Page 113 - O thou soft natural death, that art joint-twin To sweetest slumber ! no rough-bearded comet Stares on thy mild departure ; the dull owl Beats not against thy casement ; the hoarse wolf Scents not thy carrion : pity winds thy corse, Whilst horror waits on princes'.
Page 388 - Does the silkworm expend her yellow labours For thee ? For thee does she undo herself ? Are lordships sold to maintain ladyships, For the poor benefit of a bewildering minute ? Why does yon...
Page 217 - I pray thee, look thou giv'st my little boy Some syrup for his cold, and let the girl Say her prayers ere she sleep. Now what you please : What death? Bos. Strangling; here are your executioners. Duch. I forgive them: The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' the lungs, Would do as much as they do.
Page 388 - ... hanging lip, that has forgot now to dissemble. Methinks this mouth should make a swearer tremble ; A drunkard clasp his teeth, and not undo 'em, To suffer wet damnation to run through 'em.
Page 187 - Shine on him till he's dead- let dogs and monkeys Only converse with him, and such dumb things To whom nature denies use to sound his name; Do not keep a paraquito, lest she learn it; If thou do love him, cut out thine own tongue, Lest it bewray him.
Page 125 - This rosemary is wither'd; pray, get fresh. I would have these herbs grow up in his grave, When I am dead and rotten. Reach the bays, I'll tie a garland here about his head; 'Twill keep my boy from lightning.

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