Shakspeare and His Times

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Harper, 1852 - 360 páginas

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Página 283 - Speak of me as I am ; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice: then must you speak Of one that...
Página 274 - O, that the slave had forty thousand lives ! One is too poor, too weak for my revenge. Now do I see 'tis true. Look here, lago ; All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven : 'Tis gone. Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell ! Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne To tyrannous hate ! Swell, bosom, with thy fraught, For 'tis of aspics
Página 283 - No more of that ; — I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am ; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice...
Página 100 - O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide, The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, That did not better for my life provide Than public means which public manners breeds. Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, And almost thence my nature is subdued To what it works in, like the dyer's hand.
Página 38 - Twas Christmas told the merriest tale ; A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man's heart through half the year.
Página 322 - The First part of the Contention betwixt the two famous Houses of Yorke and Lancaster...
Página 40 - Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park Made green and trimm'd with trees: see how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch: each porch, each door, ere this An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove; As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Página 109 - Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear To dig the dust enclosed here. Blessed be the man that spares these stones And cursed be he that moves my bones.
Página 40 - CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. See how Aurora throws her fair, Fresh-quilted colors through the air. Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree!
Página 163 - O my love! my wife! 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.

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