Shakespeare's Story of His Life

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G. Richards, 1904 - 454 pages
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Page 73 - gainst his glory fight, And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow; And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand, Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
Page 74 - When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme, In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights ; Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have express'd Even such a beauty as you master now.
Page 308 - CXLVI. Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, Fool'd by those rebel powers that thee array, Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls so costly gay ? Why so large cost, having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend ? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, Eat up thy charge ? Is this thy body's end ? Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, And let that pine to aggravate thy store ; By terms divine in selling hours of dross ; Within be fed,...
Page 72 - In the old age black was not counted fair, Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name ; But now is black beauty's successive heir, And beauty...
Page 366 - Take, oh take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn; And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn; But my kisses bring again, bring again, Seals of love, but seal'd in vain.
Page 30 - And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Now with the drops of this most balmy time My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes, Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme, While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes: And thou in this shalt find thy monument, When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.
Page 446 - Nay, do not think I flatter; For what advancement may I hope from thee, That no revenue hast but thy good spirits To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter'd? No; let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee Where thrift may follow fawning.
Page 422 - I am thy father's spirit; Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night, And for the day confin'd to fast in fires, Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature Are burnt and purg'd away.
Page 245 - As, in a theatre, the eyes of men, After a well-graced actor leaves the stage, Are idly bent on him that enters next, Thinking his prattle to be tedious ; Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes Did scowl on Richard; no man cried, God save him...
Page 212 - For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

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