The Works of Shakespeare: In Eight Volumes : Collated with the Oldest Copies, and Corrected, with Notes, Explanatory, and Critical, 5 tomas
C. Hitch and L. Hawes, J. and R. Tonson, B. Dod, G. Woodfall, J. Rivington, R. Baldwin, T. Longman, S. Crowder and Company, W. Johnson, C. Corbet, T. Lownds, and T. Caslon, 1762
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Anne arms bear better blood brother Buck Buckingham Cade Cardinal changes Clar Clarence Clifford comes crown dead death doth Duke Earl Edward England Enter Exeunt Exit eyes fair fall father fear fhall fhould fight follow fome foul fpeak France friends ftand fuch gentle give Grace Haftings hand hath head hear heart heav'n Henry honour hope I'll King King's lady land leave live look Lord Madam mean mind moft mother muft myſelf never noble once peace pleaſe poor pray Prince Queen Rich Richard royal SCENE ſhall Suffolk tears tell thank thee thefe theſe thine thing thou thought tongue Tower true unto Warwick wife York young
217 psl. - With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears Such hideous cries, that with the very noise, I trembling wak'd, and, for a season after, Could not believe but that I was in hell; Such terrible impression made my dream.
134 psl. - To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery? O, yes it doth ; a thousand-fold it doth. And to conclude, the shepherd's homely curds, His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade, All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, Is far beyond a prince's delicates, His viands sparkling in a golden cup, His body couched in a curious bed, When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.
377 psl. - O, father abbot, An old man, broken with the storms of state, Is come to lay his weary bones among ye ; Give him a little earth for charity...
367 psl. - This many summers in a sea of glory ; But far beyond my depth ; my high-blown pride At length broke under me ; and now has left me, Weary, and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
368 psl. - Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. I know myself now ; and I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities, A still and quiet conscience. The king has cur'd me, I humbly thank his grace ; and from these shoulders, These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken A load would sink a navy, too much honour : O, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden, Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven.
133 psl. - So many hours must I tend my flock; So many hours must I take my rest; So many hours must I contemplate; So many hours must I sport myself; So many days my ewes have been with young; So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean; So many years ere I shall shear the fleece: So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years, Pass'd over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
71 psl. - Cheapside shall my palfrey go to grass: and when I am king, as king I will be, ALL God save your majesty! CADE I thank you, good people: there shall be no money; all shall eat and drink on my score; and I will apparel them all in one livery, that they may agree like brothers and worship me their lord.
368 psl. - O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours ! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.