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Page clxix - Do my face (If thou had'st ever feeling of a sorrow) Thus, thus, Antiphila : strive to make me look Like Sorrow's monument ; and the trees about me, Let them be dry and leafless ; let the rocks Groan with continual surges ; and behind me, Make all a desolation.
Page clxiii - To-day, my lord of Amiens and myself Did steal behind him, as he lay along Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out Upon the brook that brawls along this wood...
Page xxxv - What things have we seen Done at the ' Mermaid ? ' Heard words that have been So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, As if that every one from whence they came Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, And had resolved to live a fool the rest Of his dull life.
Page lxxiv - Beaumont and Fletcher, of whom I am next to speak, had, with the advantage of Shakespeare's wit, which was their precedent, great natural gifts improved by study; Beaumont especially being so accurate a judge of plays that Ben Jonson, while he lived, submitted all his writings to his censure, and, 'tis thought, used his judgment in correcting, if not contriving all his plots.
Page cliv - Every Man out of his Humour," usurped that dictatorship, in the Literary Republic, which he so sturdily and invariably maintained, though long and hardily disputed.
Page 194 - Troul the black bowl to me ;" and a woman that will sing a catch in her travail. I have seen a man come by my door with a serious face, in a black cloak, without a hatband, carrying his head as if he look'd for pins in the street.
Page cxliii - ... off, before he committed one word to writing, and never touched pen till all was to stand as firm and immutable as if engraven in brass or marble.
Page clxiii - em. he would weep, As if he meant to make 'em grow again. Seeing such pretty helpless innocence Dwell in his face, I ask'd him all his story. He told me, that his parents gentle died, Leaving him to the mercy of the fields, Which gave him roots ; and of the crystal springs, Which did not stop their courses ; and the sun, Which still, he thank'd him, yielded him his light.
Page 147 - By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap To pluck bright Honour from the pale-faced moon, Or dive into the bottom of the deep, Where fathom-line could never touch the ground, And pluck up drowned Honour by the locks; So he that doth redeem her thence might wear Without corrival all her dignities.