The Plays of William Shakspeare. In Fifteen Volumes: With the Corrections and Illustrations of Various Commentators. To which are Added, Notes by Samuel Johnson and George Steevens..

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Seite 243 - I know thee not, old man: Fall to thy prayers ; How ill white hairs become a fool, and jester!
Seite 118 - There is a history in all men's lives, Figuring the nature of the times deceased ; The which observed, a man may prophesy, With a near aim, of the main chance of things As yet not come to life, which in their seeds And weak beginnings lie intreasured.
Seite 287 - Where some, like magistrates, correct at home, Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad, Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds, Which pillage they with merry march bring home To the tent-royal of their ( emperor...
Seite 110 - O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness...
Seite 136 - I'll ne'er bear a base mind; — an't be my destiny, so ; an't be not, so. No man's too good to serve his prince ; and, let it go which way it will, he that dies this year is quit for the next.
Seite 113 - With deafning clamours in the slippery clouds, That, with the hurly," death itself awakes ? Can'st thou, O partial sleep ! give thy repose To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude ; And in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down ! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
Seite 424 - Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered, — We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he today that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition: And gentlemen in England now a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
Seite 111 - Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge, And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With deafening clamour in the slippery clouds, That, with the hurly, death itself awakes...

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