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arms Attendants Bawd bear beſt blood Boult bring CAPULET comes Corn daughter dead dear death doth draw Enter Exeunt Exit eyes face fair father fear firſt follow Fool fortune friar Gent give gods gone hand haſt hath head hear heart heaven hence hold honour houſe I'll Juliet keep Kent king lady Lear leave letter light live look lord madam Marina married maſter means moſt muſt nature never night noble Nurſe peace Pericles play poor pray prince Romeo ſay SCENE ſea ſee ſhall ſhe ſhould ſir ſome ſon ſpeak ſtand ſuch ſweet tears tell thank thee there's theſe thine thing thoſe thou thou art thought true turn Tybalt villain whoſe wife wilt young
Page 93 - Thou must be patient; we came crying hither. Thou know'st, the first time that we smell the air, We wawl, and cry: — I will preach to thee; mark me. Glo. Alack, alack the day ! Lear. When we are born, we cry, that we are come To this great stage of fools...
Page 52 - O! reason not the need; our basest beggars Are in the poorest thing superfluous: Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man's life is cheap as beast's. Thou art a lady; If only to go warm were gorgeous, Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st, Which scarcely keeps thee warm.
Page 97 - Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath. Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty: Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yet Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks. And death's pale flag is not advanced there.
Page 116 - KENT. Vex not his ghost: O, let him pass! he hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer.
Page 21 - O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear...
Page 114 - I'd use them so That heaven's vault should crack. — She's gone for ever ! — I know when one is dead, and when one lives ; She's dead as earth.
Page 46 - These violent delights have violent ends, And in their triumph die; like fire and powder, Which, as they kiss, consume...
Page 98 - tis fittest. Cor. How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty? Lear. You do me wrong, to take me out o' the grave. — Thou art a soul in bliss ; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead.