Shakespeare's Comedy of The Winter's Tale

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Harper & brothers, 1895 - 220 pages
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Page 207 - And put it to the foil : But you, O you, So perfect, and so peerless, are created Of every creature's best.
Page 101 - 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...
Page 101 - I'd have you buy and sell so ; so, give alms ; Pray, so ; and for the ordering your affairs, To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do Nothing but that : move still, still so, And own no other function.
Page 149 - O, pardon! since a crooked figure may Attest in little place a million; And let us, ciphers to this great accompt, On your imaginary forces work.
Page 100 - Sir, the year growing ancient, Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o...
Page 111 - Even here undone ! I was not much afeard : for once, or twice, I was about to speak ; and tell him plainly, The selfsame sun, that shines upon his court, Hides not his visage from our cottage, but Looks on alike.— Will 't please you, sir, be gone?
Page 45 - We were, fair queen, Two lads that thought there was no more behind, But such a day to-morrow as to-day, And to be boy eternal. Her. Was not my lord the verier wag o' the two ? Pol. We were as twinn'd lambs that did frisk i' the sun And bleat the one at the other.
Page 100 - Yet nature is made better by no mean 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 97 - Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way, And merrily hent the stile-a; A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a.
Page 170 - tis slander, Whose edge is sharper than the sword ; whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile ; whose breath Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie All corners of the world : kings, queens, and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave This viperous slander enters.

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