The Plays and Poems of William Shakspeare: With the Corrections and Illustrations of Various Commentators, 9 tomas

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F. C. and J. Rivington, 1821
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486 psl. - tis a lost fear; Man but a rush against Othello's breast, And he retires; — Where should Othello go? — Now, how dost thou look now ? O ill-starr'd wench ! Pale as thy smock ! when we shall meet at compt, This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven, And fiends will snatch at it.
265 psl. - My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs...
64 psl. - O, it is excellent To have a giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous To use it like a giant.
202 psl. - I'll lend you all my life to do you service. Duke. Against all sense you do importune her: Should she kneel down in mercy of this fact, Her brother's ghost his paved bed would break, And take her hence in horror.
61 psl. - tis too late. Lucio. You are too cold. [To Isabella. Isab. Too late? why, no; I, that do speak a word, May call it back again: Well believe this, No ceremony that to great ones 'longs, Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, Become them with one half so good a grace, As mercy does.
260 psl. - And, till she come, as truly as to heaven I do confess the vices of my blood, So justly to your grave ears I'll present How I did thrive in this fair lady's love, And she in mine.
378 psl. - Look, where he comes ! Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou ow'dst yesterday.
104 psl. - And the poor beetle that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.
462 psl. - It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul, — Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars ! — It is the cause.
475 psl. - Ay, with Cassio. Nay had she been true, If heaven would make me such another world Of one entire and perfect chrysolite, I'd not have sold her for it.

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