The Works of Shakespeare: In Eight Volumes. Collated with the Oldest Copies, and Corrected: with Notes, Explanatory and Critical:
H. Lintott, 1740
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The Works of Shakespeare In Eight Volumes ; Collated with the ..., 3 tomas
Visos knygos peržiūra - 1740
The Works of Shakespeare Collated with the Oldest Copies, and ..., 3 tomas
Visos knygos peržiūra - 1773
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bear better blood bring brother changes comes Count daughter dear death doth Dromio Duke ears England Enter Exeunt Exit eyes face fair faith father fear felf fellow fhall fhould fince fome fool fortune foul fpeak France ftand fuch fweet give gone hand hath hear heart heav'n hold honour hope hour husband I'll John keep King Lady leave live look Lord Madam mafter Marry mean moft mother muft muſt nature never night peace Philip poor pray Prince Queen SCENE ſhall ſpeak tell thank thee thefe there's theſe thine thing thou thou art thought tongue true whofe wife young
70 psl. - The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our virtues.
137 psl. - element,' but the word is over-worn. \Exit. Vio. This fellow is wise enough to play the fool ; And to do that well craves a kind of wit : He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye.
384 psl. - Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form; Then, have I reason to be fond of grief ? Fare you well: had you such a loss as I, I could give better comfort than you do.
295 psl. - But nature makes that mean; so over that art, Which you say adds to nature, is an art That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry A gentler scion to the wildest stock, And make conceive a bark of baser kind By bud of nobler race. This is an art Which does mend nature change it rather; but The art itself is nature.
384 psl. - There's nothing in this world can make me joy : Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale, Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man ; And bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste, That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.
283 psl. - I would, there were no age between ten and three-and-twenty ; or that youth would sleep out the rest: for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting.
101 psl. - If music be the food of love, play on ; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die. That strain again ! it had a dying fall : O ! it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour.
419 psl. - This England never did, (nor never shall,) Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself. Now these her princes are come home again, Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them : Nought shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true.