The Works of Thomas Otway: Friendship in fashion. The history and fall of Caius Marius. The orphan, or, The unhappy marriage. The soldier's fortune

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Seite 138 - O Romeo, Romeo ! wherefore art thou Romeo ? Deny thy father and refuse thy name; Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
Seite 140 - My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite.
Seite 128 - Of healths five fathom deep ; and then anon Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes; And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, And sleeps again.
Seite 191 - 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.
Seite 162 - It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale : look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops : I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Seite 138 - Retain that dear perfection which he owes Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name; And for that name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself.
Seite 254 - I'd leave the world for him that hates a woman. Woman, the fountain of all human frailty ! What mighty ills have not been done by woman ? Who was't betray'd the capitol ? A woman. Who lost Mark Antony the world ? A woman. Who was the cause of a long ten years...
Seite 140 - I'll believe thee. Rom. If my heart's dear love Jul. Well, do not swear: although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night : It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden ; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be, Ere one can say — It lightens.
Seite 140 - Do not swear at all; Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, Which is the god of my idolatry, And I'll believe thee.
Seite 138 - O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, As is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds And sails upon the bosom of the air.

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