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Anon Attendants bear better bring Cambridge Capell cloth College Collier comes Count Crown 8vo daughter Duke Edition ending Enter Exeunt Exit eyes fair faith father Fcap fear fellow Ff Q fool fortune give Gremio hand Hanmer hast hath hear heart heaven hold honour hope I'll Johnson Kath King lady leave Leon live Long look lord Lucentio madam Malone marry master mean mistress nature never night Paul play poor Pope pray present Printed queen Re-enter Rowe Rowe ed SCENE Second Serv servant speak stand stay Steevens sweet tell thanks thee Theobald thing thou thought Tranio true Walker conj Warburton wife young
Page 377 - O Proserpina, For the flowers now that frighted thou let'st fall From Dis's waggon! daffodils That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses, That die unmarried, ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength — a malady Most incident to maids; bold oxlips and The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, The flower-de-luce being one!
Page 376 - But nature makes that mean : so, over that art Which you say adds to nature, is an art That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry A gentler scion to the wildest stock, And make conceive a bark of baser kind By bud of nobler race : this is an art Which does mend nature, change it rather, but The art itself is nature.
Page 112 - Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to heaven : the fated sky Gives us free scope; only, doth backward pull Our slow designs, when we ourselves are dull.
Page 250 - ... be laid ; Fly away, fly away, breath ; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it; My part of death no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown ; Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown : A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O, where Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there.
Page 180 - The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together : our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our virtues.