A Select Collection of Old Plays: In Twelve Volumes, Volume 3


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Página 171 - What noise is this ? who calls Hieronimo ? " May it be done ? Pain. Yea, sir. Hier. Well, sir ; then bring me forth, bring me through alley and alley, still with a distracted countenance going along, and let my hair heave up my night-cap. Let the clouds scowl, make the moon dark, the stars extinct, the winds blowing, the bells tolling, the owls shrieking, the toads croaking, the minutes jarring, and the clock striking twelve.
Página 107 - Enforc'd by nature and by law of arms My tongue should plead for young Horatio's right : He hunted well that was a lion's death, 170 Not he that in a garment wore his skin ; So hares may pull dead lions by the beard.
Página 165 - Conceived of young Horatio his son, And covetous of having to himself The ransom of the young prince Balthazar, Distract, and in a manner lunatic. KING Believe me, nephew, we are sorry for't: 90 This is the love that fathers bear their sons.
Página 141 - t is here hard by behind the house; There take thy stand, and see thou strike him sure, For die he must, if we do mean to live.
Página 148 - I must go to Pedringano, and tell him his pardon is in this box ; nay, I would have sworn it, had I not seen the contrary. — I cannot choose but smile to think how the villain will flout the gallows, scorn the audience, and descant on the hangman, and all presuming of his pardon from hence.
Página 132 - God ! confusion, mischief, torment, death and hell, Drop all your stings at once in my cold bosom, That now is stiff with horror ; kill me quickly : Be gracious to me, thou infective night, And drop this deed of murder down on me ; Gird in my waste of grief with thy large darkness, And let me not survive to see the light, May put me in the mind I had a son.
Página 321 - tis the soul of peace : Of all the virtues, 'tis nearest kin to heaven ; It makes men look like gods. — The best of men That e'er wore earth about him, was a sufferer, A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit, The first true gentleman that ever breathed.
Página 159 - Meadows trim, with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide; Towers and battlements it sees Bosom'd high in tufted trees, Where, perhaps, some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighbouring eyes.
Página 310 - twould grieve a soul to see God's image So blemish'd and defac'd, yet do they act Such antick and such pretty lunacies, That, spite of sorrow, they will make you smile. Others again we have, like hungry lions, Fierce as wild bulls, untameable as flies.
Página 283 - False colours last after the true be dead. Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks, Of all the graces dancing in her eyes, Of all the music set upon her tongue, Of all that was past woman's excellence In her white bosom ; look, a painted board Circumscribes all ! DEKKER.

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