Twelfth Night, Or, What You Will, Volume 12

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Methuen, 1906 - Brothers and sisters - 195 pages
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Page 95 - element, ' but the word is overworn. Exit. Vio. This fellow 's wise enough to play the fool, And to do that well craves a kind of wit : He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye.
Page 179 - When that I was and a little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain; A foolish thing was but a toy, For the rain it raineth every day.
Page 3 - Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or hearing die.
Page 5 - O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou, That, notwithstanding thy capacity Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there, Of what validity and pitch soe'er, But falls into abatement and low price, Even in a minute; so full of shapes is fancy, That it alone is high fantastical.
Page 69 - The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids that weave their thread with bones, Do use to chant it ; it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age.
Page 70 - Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me 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.
Page 3 - If music be the food of love, play on ; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.
Page 5 - Lovers, and madmen, have such seething brains, Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends. The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, Are of imagination all compact.
Page 74 - She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek : she pined in thought ; And, with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief.
Page 55 - There live not three good men unhanged in England, and one of them is fat, and grows old : God help, the while, a bad world, I say. I would I were a weaver; I could sing psalms or anything.