King Richard the third. King Henry the eighth. Troilus and Cressida. Timon of Athens. Coriolanus

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Charles C. Little and James Brown, 1844
 

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Seite 260 - The heavens themselves, the planets, and this centre, Observe degree, priority, and place, Insisture, course, proportion, season, form, Office, and custom, in all line of order...
Seite 261 - Take but degree away, untune that string, And, hark, what discord follows ! each thing meets In mere oppugnancy : the bounded waters Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores And make a sop of all this solid globe : Strength should be lord of imbecility, And the rude son should strike his father dead : Force should be right ; or rather, right and wrong, Between whose endless jar justice resides, Should lose their names, and so should justice too.
Seite 305 - For emulation hath a thousand sons That one by one pursue: if you give way, Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an...
Seite 202 - And, pr'ythee, lead me in : There take an inventory of all I have, To the last penny ; 'tis the king's : my robe, And my integrity to Heaven, is all I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell, Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies.
Seite 209 - Unwilling to outlive the good that did it ; The other, though unfinished, yet so famous, So excellent in art, and still so rising, That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue. His overthrow heap'd happiness upon him ; For then, and not till then, he felt himself, And found the blessedness of being little : And, to add greater honours to his age Than man could give him, he died fearing God.
Seite 209 - Noble madam, Men's evil manners live in brass; their virtues We write in water. May it please your highness To hear me speak his good now ? Kath.
Seite 135 - I COME no more to make you laugh : things now, That bear a weighty and a serious brow, Sad, high, and working, full of state and woe, Such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow, We now present.
Seite 183 - 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. Every thing 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.
Seite 200 - Why, well; Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. I know myself now; and I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities, A still and quiet conscience.
Seite 128 - Slave, I have set my life upon a cast, And I will stand the hazard of the die : I think, there be six Richmonds in the field; Five have I slain to-day, instead of him : — A horse ! a horse ! my kingdom for a horse ! [Exeunt.

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