The Works of William Shakespeare: The Plays Edited from the Folio of MDCXXIII, with Various Readings from All the Editions and All the Commentators, Notes, Introductory Remarks, a Historical Sketch of the Text, an Account of the Rise and Progress of the English Drama, a Memoir of the Poet, and an Essay Upon the Genius, Volume 8
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Anne appears arms bear better blood brother Buck Buckingham Cardinal Catesby cause Clar Clarence Clifford comes crown dead death doth doubt Duke Earl Edward Eliz Enter Exeunt Exit eyes fair fall father fear fight folio follow France friends Gent gentle give Gloster Grace Grey hand Hast hath head hear heart Heaven Henry Highness Holinshed honour hope hour Keep King King's Lady leave live look lord Madam mean mind misprint mother Murd never noble Norfolk Note once passage peace play poor pray Prince quartos Queen rest Rich Richard Richmond royal SCENE Shakespeare soul speak speech stand stay sweet tell thank thee thing thou thought Tower true unto Warwick York
Page 141 - Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths ; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments ; Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front ; And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber, To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
Page 392 - This is the state of man : to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes ; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him ; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root, And then he falls, as I do.
Page 373 - Orpheus with his lute made trees. And the mountain-tops that freeze, Bow themselves, when he did sing : To his music plants, and flowers Ever sprung ; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring. Everything that heard him play. Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or, hearing, die.
Page 388 - s holiness. Nay then, farewell! I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness; And from that full meridian of my glory, I haste now to my setting: I shall fall Like a bright exhalation in the evening, And no man see me more.
Page 265 - My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree, Murder, stern murder, in the dir'st degree; All several sins, all used in each degree, Throng to the bar, crying all, — Guilty ! guilty ! I shall despair.
Page 168 - I have pass'da miserable night, So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, That, as I am a Christian faithful man, I would not spend another such a night, Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days : So full of dismal terror was the time.
Page 142 - 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.
Page 46 - 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.
Page 395 - Love thyself last ; cherish those hearts that hate thee : Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not : Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's and truth's; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, Thou fall'st a blessed martyr.
Page 393 - 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.