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The Plays and Poems of William Shakspeare: With the Corrections and ...
No preview available - 2019
ancient appear Aufidius bear believe better blood bring called Camillo cause common Coriolanus death editors enemy Enter Exeunt expression eyes fair father fear folio give given gods hand hast hath head hear heard heart hold honour I'll Johnson King King Henry lady leave Leon less look lord MALONE Marcius Mason master means measure Menenius mother nature never noble observes occurs old copy once passage Paul peace perhaps person play poor Pray present prince queen Roman Rome SCENE seems senate sense Serv Shakspeare signifies speak speech stand STEEVENS suppose tell thee thing thou thought tribunes true truth voices WARBURTON wife worthy
Page 350 - Yet nature is made better by no mean, But nature makes that mean : so, o'er 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 ~\\ hich does mend nature, — change it rather ; but The art itself is nature.
Page 16 - Who deserves greatness Deserves your hate; and your affections are A sick man's appetite, who desires most that Which would increase his evil. He that depends Upon your favours swims with fins of lead, And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye! Trust ye! With every minute you do change a mind; And call him noble that was now your hate, Him vile that was your garland.
Page 258 - I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following ; but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you.
Page 355 - The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses, That die unmarried, ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength, a malady Most incident to maids; bold oxlips and The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, The flower-de-luce being one ! O, these I lack, To make you garlands of; and my sweet friend, To strew him o'er and o'er ! FLO.
Page 225 - If you have writ your annals true, 'tis there, That, like an eagle in a dovecote, I Flutter'd your Volscians in Corioli : Alone I did it. — Boy ! Auf.
Page 214 - What have you done ? Behold, the heavens do ope, The gods look down, and this unnatural scene They laugh at. O my mother, mother ! O ! You have won a happy victory to Rome ; But, for your son, — believe it, O, believe it, — Most dangerously you have with him prevailed, If not most mortal to him.