The Plays and Poems of William Shakspeare, Том 7

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R. C. and J. Rivington, 1821
 

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Страница 473 - No, faith, not a jot; but to follow him thither •with modesty enough, and likelihood to lead it : As thus ; Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth to dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam : And why of that loam, whereto he was converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel...
Страница 333 - Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue ; but if you mouth it, as many of your players do ', I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines.
Страница 204 - God ! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, Would have mourn'd longer — married with my uncle, My father's brother, but no more like my father Than I to Hercules...
Страница 313 - A damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward? Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across? Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face? Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i' the throat, As deep as to the lungs?
Страница 419 - Makes mouths at the invisible event, Exposing what is mortal and unsure To all that fortune, death and danger dare, Even for an egg-shell.
Страница 503 - Hamlet wrong'd Laertes ? Never Hamlet : If Hamlet from himself be ta'en away, And when he's not himself does wrong Laertes, Then Hamlet does it not ; Hamlet denies it. Who does it then ? His madness. If't be so, Hamlet is of the faction that is wrong'd ; His madness is poor Hamlet's enemy.
Страница 370 - Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me. You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.
Страница 233 - What may this mean, That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel, Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon, Making night hideous, and we fools of nature So horridly to shake our disposition With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?
Страница 282 - tis none to you ; for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so : to me it is a prison.
Страница 418 - What is a man, If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and god-like reason To fust in us unus'd.

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