The Plays and Poems of William Shakspeare, Volume 9

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F. C. and J. Rivington, 1821

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Página 480 - tis a lost fear; Man but a rush against Othello's breast, And he retires; — Where should Othello go? — Now, how dost thou look now ? O ill-starr'd wench ! Pale as thy smock ! when we shall meet at compt, This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven, And fiends will snatch at it.
Página 198 - I'll lend you all my life to do you service. Duke. Against all sense you do importune her: Should she kneel down in mercy of this fact, Her brother's ghost his paved bed would break, And take her hence in horror.
Página 256 - And, till she come, as truly as to heaven I do confess the vices of my blood, So justly to your grave ears I'll present How I did thrive in this fair lady's love, And she in mine.
Página 39 - Our doubts are traitors, And make us lose the good we oft might win, By fearing to attempt.
Página 374 - Look, where he comes ! Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou ow'dst yesterday.
Página 102 - And the poor beetle that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.
Página 261 - My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs : She swore, in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange ; 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful : She wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wish'd That heaven had made her such a man...
Página 354 - Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls : Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing; 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands ; But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed.
Página 92 - Be absolute for death; either death, or life, Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with life,— If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing That none but fools would keep...
Página 459 - It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul, — Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars ! — It is the cause. — Yet I'll not shed her blood ; Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow, And smooth as monumental alabaster.