Tales from Shakespeare

Capa
Bickers, 1878 - 386 páginas
This Book Contains 20 Tales From Shakespear'S Plays Which Are Rewritten In Simple English, In The From Of Tales By Charles And May Lamb.
 

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Página 267 - 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.
Página 267 - 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 239 - We must not make a scare-crow of the law, ' Setting it up to fear the birds of prey, And let it keep one shape, till custom make it Their perch, and not their terror.
Página 112 - I hate him for he is a Christian, But more for that in low simplicity He lends out money gratis and brings down The rate of usance here with us in Venice. If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.
Página 121 - Tarry a little ; there is something else. This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood, — The words expressly are, a pound of flesh...
Página 174 - Sleep no more ! Macbeth does murder sleep,' the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast, — Lady M. What do you mean ? Macb. Still it cried ' Sleep no more ! ' to all the house : ' Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more ; Macbeth shall sleep no more.
Página 50 - Is it possible Disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick? Courtesy itself must convert to disdain if you come in her presence.
Página 246 - O, I do fear thee, Claudio; and I quake, Lest thou a feverous life shouldst entertain, And six or seven winters more respect Than a perpetual honour. Dar'st thou die ? The sense of death is most in apprehension ; And the poor beetle that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.
Página 262 - 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 23 - Philomel, with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby ; lulla, lulla, lullaby ; Never harm, nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good night, with lullaby.

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