The Works of William Shakespeare: As you like it. The taming of the shrew. All's well that ends well. Twelfth night. The winter's tale

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Seite 27 - The seasons' difference : as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, Which when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say, This is no flattery : these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Seite 323 - IF music be the food of love, play on ; Give me excess of it ; that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die. That strain again ; — it had a dying fall : O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour.
Seite 44 - All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players : They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Seite 486 - When daffodils begin to peer, With heigh ! the doxy over the dale, Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year; For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale. The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, With heigh ! the sweet birds, O, how they sing! Doth set my pugging tooth on edge ; For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. The lark, that...
Seite 45 - Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot ; Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remember
Seite 360 - Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid ; Fly away, fly away, breath ; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it ! My part of death, no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown ; Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown : A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O, where Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there ! Duke.
Seite 199 - Such duty as the subject owes the prince, Even such a woman oweth to her husband : And, when she's froward, peevish, sullen, sour, And, not obedient to his honest will, What is she, but a foul contending rebel, And graceless traitor to her loving lord ? — I am asham'd, that women are so simple To offer war, where they should kneel for peace ; Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway, When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.

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