autobigraphy of an actress

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Page 309 - 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.
Page 184 - He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone, At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.
Page 41 - Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end both at the first, and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure.
Page 185 - There's fennel for you, and columbines; there's rue for you; and here's some for me; we may call it herb of grace o' Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference. There's a daisy; I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died.
Page 186 - And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead; Go to thy death-bed, He never will come again. His beard was as white as snow All flaxen was his poll, He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan: God ha
Page 259 - Only for wantonness. By my Christendom, So I were out of prison, and kept sheep, I should be as merry as the day is long...
Page 281 - Full fathom five thy father lies, Of his bones are coral made : Those are pearls that were his eyes, Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea change, Into something rich and strange.
Page 21 - Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn; happier than this, She is not bred so dull but she can learn; Happiest of all in that her gentle spirit Commits itself to yours to be directed, As from her lord, her governor, her king.
Page 351 - What is a man, If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and god-like reason To fust in us unus'd.
Page 122 - To a babbling wanderer sent ; Like her ordinary cry, Like, but oh, how different ! Hears not also mortal life ? Hear not we, unthinking creatures ! Slaves of folly, love, or strife, Voices of two different natures...

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