The Plays and Poems of William Shakspeare, Band 6

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R. C. and J. Rivington, 1821
 

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Seite 380 - The seasons' difference ; as, the icy fang, And churlish chiding of the winter's wind ; Which when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say, — This is no flattery : these are counsellors, That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Seite 52 - Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners' legs; The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; The traces, of the smallest spider's web; The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams; Her whip, of cricket's bone ; the lash, of film ; Her waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat, Not half so big as a round little worm Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid; Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub, Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers And in this state she gallops night...
Seite 66 - Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this ; For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers
Seite 242 - O ! here Will I set up my everlasting rest, And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh.
Seite 77 - tis not to me she speaks : Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
Seite 84 - O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
Seite 78 - O ! speak again, bright angel ; for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, As is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, And sails upon the bosom of the air.
Seite 161 - It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east: Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops; I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Seite 56 - True, I talk of dreams ; Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy ; Which is as thin of substance as the air ; And more inconstant than the wind...
Seite 409 - And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel, And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school ; and then the lover, • Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress...