The Works of William Shakespeare: The taming of the shrew. All's well that ends well. Twelfth night: or, What you will. The winter's taleMacmillan, 1891 |
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379 ページ
... Leon . Stay your thanks a while ; And pay them when you part . Pol . 5 Sir , that's to - morrow . 10 I am question'd by my fears , of what may chance Or breed upon our absence ; that may blow No sneaping winds at home , to make us say ...
... Leon . Stay your thanks a while ; And pay them when you part . Pol . 5 Sir , that's to - morrow . 10 I am question'd by my fears , of what may chance Or breed upon our absence ; that may blow No sneaping winds at home , to make us say ...
380 ページ
... Leon . One seven - night longer . Pol . Very sooth , to - morrow . Leon . We'll part the time between ' s , then and in that I'll no gainsaying . Pol . Press me not , beseech you , so . 21 There is no tongue that moves , none , none i ...
... Leon . One seven - night longer . Pol . Very sooth , to - morrow . Leon . We'll part the time between ' s , then and in that I'll no gainsaying . Pol . Press me not , beseech you , so . 21 There is no tongue that moves , none , none i ...
383 ページ
... Leon . Is he won yet ? Her . He'll stay , my lord . Leon . 85 At my request he would not . Hermione , my dearest , thou never spokest To better purpose . Her . Leon . Never ? Never , but once . Her . What have I twice said well ? when ...
... Leon . Is he won yet ? Her . He'll stay , my lord . Leon . 85 At my request he would not . Hermione , my dearest , thou never spokest To better purpose . Her . Leon . Never ? Never , but once . Her . What have I twice said well ? when ...
384 ページ
... Leon . Why , that was when Three crabbed months had sour'd themselves to death , Ere I could make thee open thy white hand , And clap thyself my love : then didst thou utter ' I am yours for ever . ' Her . ' Tis Grace indeed . Why , lo ...
... Leon . Why , that was when Three crabbed months had sour'd themselves to death , Ere I could make thee open thy white hand , And clap thyself my love : then didst thou utter ' I am yours for ever . ' Her . ' Tis Grace indeed . Why , lo ...
385 ページ
... Leon . Thou want'st a rough pash and the shoots that I have , To be full like me yet they say we are Almost as like as eggs ; women say so , That will say any thing : but were they false As o'er - dyed blacks , as wind , as waters ...
... Leon . Thou want'st a rough pash and the shoots that I have , To be full like me yet they say we are Almost as like as eggs ; women say so , That will say any thing : but were they false As o'er - dyed blacks , as wind , as waters ...
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Anon Baptista Becket conj Bertram Bian Bianca Bion Biondello Bohemia Bulloch conj Camillo Capell conj Cleomenes Count Daniel conj Duke Dyce Enter Exeunt Exit F₁ F₁F2 F₁Q father Ff Q fool gentleman Gould conj Grant White Gremio Hanmer hast hath Heath conj honour Hortensio Hudson Illyria Jackson conj Johnson conj Kate Kath Katharina Keightley conj King Kinnear conj knave lady Leon Lettsom conj lines in Ff Lord Lucentio madam Malone conj Malvolio marry master mistress Narbon Olivia Padua Petruchio Pope pray prithee prose in Ff Rann Re-enter reading Rousillon Rowe Rowe ed SCENE SCENE II servant Sicilia Signior Sir Toby sirrah speak Staunton conj Steevens conj sweet tell thee Theobald conj there's thine Tranio Vincentio Walker conj Warburton wife
人気のある引用
307 ページ - 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.
455 ページ - 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...
454 ページ - 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.
438 ページ - 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?
305 ページ - 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!
267 ページ - 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.
221 ページ - 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.
138 ページ - 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.
445 ページ - 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...