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Seite 273 - Thou mayst prove false; at lovers' perjuries They say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo, If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully. Or, if thou think'st I am too quickly won, I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond; And therefore thou mayst think my haviour light; But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true Than those that have more cunning to be strange.
Seite 287 - My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree; Murder, stern murder in the dir'st degree; All several sins, all us'd in each degree, Throng to the bar, crying all, 'Guilty, guilty!
Seite 145 - We see in needleworks and embroideries it is more pleasing to have a lively work upon a sad and solemn ground than to have a dark and melancholy work upon a lightsome ground : judge therefore of the pleasure of the heart by the pleasure of the eye. Certainly virtue is like precious odours, most fragrant when they are incensed or crushed ; for Prosperity doth best discover vice, but Adversity doth best discover virtue.
Seite 227 - Upon her face there was the tint of grief, The settled shadow of an inward strife, And an unquiet drooping of the eye As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.
Seite 179 - The times have been That, when the brains were out, the man would die, And there an end ; but now they rise again, With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, And push us from our stools.
Seite 23 - Had I been any god of power, I would Have sunk the sea within the earth, or e'er It should the good ship so have swallow'd, and The fraughting souls within her.
Seite 309 - The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonized the whole, And oh! that eye was in itself a Soul...
Seite 307 - Time ! the beautifier of the dead, Adorner of the ruin, comforter And only healer when the heart hath bled — Time ! the corrector where our judgments err, The test of truth, love, — sole philosopher, For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift, Which never loses though it doth defer — Time, the avenger ! unto thee I lift My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift ; CXXXI.