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Anon Attendants bear better Bianca bring Capell Collier comes Count court daughter Duke Dyce ending Enter Exeunt Exit eyes fair faith father fear Ff Q follow fool give Gould conj Grumio hand Hanmer hast hath hear heart heaven hold honour hope Hudson Johnson Kath Keightley King knight lady leave Leon live Long look Lord Lucentio madam Malone marry master mean mistress nature never Petruchio play poor Pope pray present Printed prose queen Rann Re-enter reading Rowe Rowe ed SCENE Serv servant speak stand Staunton stay Steevens sweet tell thanks thee Theobald thing thou thought Tranio true Walker conj Warburton wife young
Página 307 - A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek. She pined in thought And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat, like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief.
Página 455 - O Proserpina, For the flowers now, that frighted thou let'st fall From Dis's waggon ! daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses, That die unmarried, ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength — a malady Most incident to maids...
Página 454 - Yet nature is made better by no mean But nature makes that mean; so over that art, Which you say adds to nature, is an art That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry A gentler scion to the wildest stock, And make conceive a bark of baser kind By bud of nobler race. This is an art Which does mend nature — change it rather; but The art itself is nature.
Página 438 - I would there were no age between ten and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest ; for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting — Hark you now ! Would any but these boiled brains of nineteen and two-and-twenty hunt this weather?
Página 305 - 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!
Página 267 - 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 sound, That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour ! Enough ; no more : 'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
Página 221 - The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together : our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our virtues.
Página 138 - Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to heaven : the fated sky Gives us free scope; only, doth backward pull Our slow designs, when we ourselves are dull.
Página 445 - 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...