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Abington actor actress admired amusement appearance applause attraction audience Bannister beauty benefit called character charm Cibber Colman comedy comic Country Girl Covent Garden Covent Garden theatre Cumberland Cymbeline Drury Lane theatre Duke effect epilogue equal excite farce fashionable favour favourite Fawcett Garrick genius graceful Harry heard heart heroine honour humour Jordan Kemble King lady laugh Leeds length Lennox London Lord Macbeth Macklin manager ment merit Miss Farren Miss Francis nature never night occasion opera Othello Palmer passion performance perhaps play poet present Prince Prince Hoare profession racter rendered revived rival Romp Royal scene School for Scandal season seemed Shakspeare Sheridan shewed Siddons sion sister Smith stage style summer talent Tate Tate Wilkinson theatrical thing thought tion town tragedy usual Viola voice Vortigern Wilkinson woman writer Wroughton York young youth
Page 60 - O fellow, come, the song we had last night: Mark it, Cesario; it is old and plain: The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids that weave their thread with bones, Do use to chant it ; it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age.
Page 3 - And let my liver rather heat with wine Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. Why should a man, whose blood is warm within, Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?
Page 314 - E'en wondered at because he dropt no sooner; Fate seemed to wind him up for fourscore years; Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more, Till, like a clock worn out with eating Time, The wheels of weary life at last stood still.
Page 98 - Or ounce, or tiger, hog, or bearded goat, All other parts remaining as they were ; And they, so perfect is their misery, Not once perceive their foul disfigurement, But boast themselves more comely than before ; And all their friends and native home forget, To roll with pleasure in a sensual sty.
Page 238 - Is this a dagger, which I see before me, The handle toward my hand ? Come, let me clutch thee : — I ha-ye thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling, as to sight ? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain ? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw.
Page 60 - Who but must laugh if such a man there be ? Who would not weep if Atticus were he?
Page 132 - Commons. (42) you still bleed from the wounds of his talons. You crouched, and still crouch, beneath his rage.
Page 201 - English artists are the most engaged, a variety, a fancy, and a dignity derived from the higher branches, which even those who professed them in a superior manner did not always preserve when they delineated individual nature. His portraits remind the spectator of the invention of history, and the amenity of landscape. In painting portraits he appeared not to be raised upon that platform, but to descend to it from a higher sphere.