The plays of Shakespeare, from the text of S. Johnson, with the prefaces, notes &c. of Rowe, Pope and many other critics. 6 vols. [in 12 pt. Followed by] Shakespeare's poems, 8 tomas
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againſt ANNE arms battle bear better blood brother Buck Buckingham Cateſby Changes Clarence Clifford comes crown dead death devil doth doubt duke Dutch earl Edward Enter Exeunt Exit eyes fair father fear fight firſt follow France friends gentle give grace gracious Gray hand Hast Haſtings hath head hear heart Henry hold honour hope houſe JOHNS king land leave live look lord means mind moſt mother muſt myſelf never noble Oxford peace pity play poor prince Queen reſt Rich Richard Richmond ſay SCENE ſee ſeems ſet ſhall ſhe ſhould ſome ſon ſoul ſpeak ſtand Stanley ſtay ſuch ſweet tears tell thee THEOB theſe thing thoſe thou thought Tower true unto uſe vice WARB Warwick whoſe wrong York young
422 psl. - Why I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun, And descant on mine own deformity. And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover To entertain these fair well-spoken days, . I am determined to prove a villain, And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
353 psl. - O God! methinks it were a happy life, To be no better than a homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run, How many make the hour full complete; How many hours bring about the day; How many days will finish up the year; How many years a mortal man may live.
537 psl. - Give me another horse! bind up my wounds! Have mercy, Jesu! Soft! I did but dream. O! coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me. The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight. Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. What! do I fear myself? there's none else by Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I.
354 psl. - 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...
448 psl. - Who pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood, With that grim ferryman which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. The first that there did greet my stranger soul, Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick; Who cried aloud, ' What scourge for perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence...
416 psl. - I have no brother, I am like no brother, And this word 'love,' which greybeards call divine, Be resident in men like one another, And not in me! I am myself alone. Clarence, beware!