Dicks' standard plays

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Page 6 - I heard nothing; but go— observe him. A lone woman with her child hath travelled to our city, to beg her husband's freedom. The holy Carmelites have lodged, and comforted her. I have bid the abbess send her hither.
Page 5 - And when I told thee of the withering husband, the miserable father— spake of the worn and heart-sick wife — thou didst hear my tale — thou, an old man, didst hear with ears of stone. More: when I told thee of the child— the captive's child— the poor innocent, barred from its father's neck— dost thon remember ? Ma.
Page 4 - The world we dwell in — what have man's low passions made it ? What hath his pride, lust, folly, crime, built up ?— a gaol, with walls as high as Babel ! and here we pine, the oppressing and the oppressed ; and here, some trace a shadowy pageant on the floor— some scratch a name within the flint —SOUK!, witless, laugh a hollow life away — some, silent die — and some go raving mad I Ans.
Page 5 - There are, thon saidst, prisoners—Christian prisoners, in the city fort. Young bones, crooked with the weight of chains, rivetted by Christian hands. The State demands a crashing ransom : thou and thy brethren — I praise the zeal — would gather monies for their freedom. Thou didst ask my money.
Page 8 - The things I saw— the sounds I heard! Creatures with bloody beaks and cold blue eyes, and yet men, tearing each other! And ghastly shows, and holidays of death, and masks, where men vizored their faces from living beasts, snarled and rent like foxes, wolves, and then would smile again and speak like men! But children— children ! Fran.
Page 6 - Where an old grief hath risen with armed strength— where old faces, with frowns they never had before, have looked upon me — where old voices, -old, but changed, have spoken to me.
Page 5 - The Painter of Ghent (Strand Theater, 1830), in which Ichabod, a Jewish picture-dealer, tells a monk, "Ye treat us as we were a lot of loathsome worms and then marvel if we sometimes crawl.
Page 7 - Father, I have been sitting with the dead ; and though men are wont to pay them little courtesy, it is not my custom. Poor things ! we heap upon...

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