The dramatic works of William Shakspeare, with notes original and selected by S.W. Singer, and a life of the poet by C. Symmons, Band 7

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Seite 365 - For honour travels in a strait so narrow, Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path; 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 enter'd tide, they all rush by, And leave you hindmost...
Seite 354 - Nothing, but our undertakings ; when we vow to weep seas, live in fire, eat rocks, tame tigers ; thinking it harder for our mistress to devise imposition enough, than for us to undergo any difficulty imposed. This is the monstruosity in love, lady, — that the will is infinite, and the execution confined; that the desire is boundless, and the act a slave to limit.
Seite 364 - Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: Those scraps are good deeds past: which are devour'd As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done...
Seite 142 - I shall despair. — There is no creature loves me ; And, if I die, no soul will pity me : — Nay, wherefore should they ? since that I myself Find in myself no pity to myself.
Seite 251 - He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one; Exceeding wise, fair spoken, and persuading; Lofty, and sour, to them that lov"d him not; But to those men that sought him, sweet as summer: And though he were unsatisfied in getting, (Which was a sin) yet in bestowing, madam, He was most princely.
Seite 334 - Twixt right and wrong ; for pleasure and revenge Have ears more deaf than adders to the voice Of any true decision.
Seite 8 - I— that am curtail'd of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time Into this breathing world scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them...
Seite 239 - This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride At length broke under me, and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream that must for ever hide me.
Seite 241 - Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forc'd me Out of thy honest truth to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell; And, — when I am forgotten, as I shall be; And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of, — say, I taught thee; Say, Wolsey, — that once trod the ways of glory...
Seite 352 - Too subtle-potent, tun'd too sharp in sweetness, For the capacity of my ruder powers : I fear it much ; and I do fear besides, That I shall lose distinction in my joys ; As doth a battle, when they charge on heaps The enemy flying.

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