Imatges de pàgina
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Would he abuse the countenance of the king,
Alack, what mischiefs might he set abroach,
In shadow of such greatness !

Henry IV. P. 2, A. 4, S. 2.
The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins
Remorse from power : and, to speak truth of Cæsar,
I have not known when his affections sway'd
More than his reason. Julius Cæfar, A. 2, S. 1.
O place and greatness, millions of false eyes
Are stuck upon thee! volumes of report
Run with these false and most contrarious quests
Upon thy doings! thousand 'scapes of wit
Make thee the father of their idle dream,
And rack thee in their fancies !

Measure for Measure, A. 4, S. 1.

Believe this,
No ceremony that to great ones 'longs,
Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword,
The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe,
Become them with one half so good a grace,
As mercy does. Measure for Measure, A. 2, S. 2.

Nay then, farewell !
I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness;
And, from that full meridian of my glory,
I haste now to my setting: I shall fall
Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no man see me more. Henry VIII. A. 3, S. 2.
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him :

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening,-nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. Henry VIII. A. 3, S. 2.


Who deserves greatness, Deserves your hate : and

hate : and your affections are A fick man's appetite, who desires most that Which would increase his evil. He that depends Upon your favours, swims with fins of lead, And hews down oaks with rushes.

Coriolanus, A. 1, S. 1. Things small as nothing, for requests fake only, He makes important : poflest he is with greatness, And speaks not to himself, but with a pride That quarrels at self breath,

Troilus and Cressida, A. 2, S. 3. 'Tis certain, greatness, once fallen out with fortune, Must fall out with men too: What the declin'd is, He shall as soon read in the eyes of others, As feel in his own fall.

Troilus and Cresida, A. 3,

So much is iny poverty of spirit,
So mighty, and so many, my defects,
That I would rather hide me from my greatness,
Than in my greatness covet to be hid,
And in the vapour of my glory smother'd.

Richard III. A.

32 S.

7. Do you hear how we are fhent' for keeping your greatness back?

Coriolanus, A. 5, S. 2.

S. 3:


Every one can master a grief, but he that has it.

Mucb ado about nothing, A. 3, S. 2.

how we are shent.] Shent is brought to destruction.

JOHNSON. " Shent” does not mean brought to destruction, but Samed, disgraced, made ashamed of himself

PERCY. “ Shent," in this place, is repröved, blamed.

A. B.



Being that I flow in grief,
The smallest twine may lead me.

Mucb ado about nothing, A. 4, S.

Grief boundeth where it falls, Not with the empty hollowness, but weight : I take my leave before I have begun; For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.

Richard II. A. I, S. 2. - Perspectives, which, rightly gaz'd upon, Shew nothing but confusion; ey'd awry, Distinguish form: so your sweet majesty, Looking awry upon your lord's departure, Find shapes of grief, more than himself to wail.

Richard II. A. 2, S. 2.

Oh, that I were as great
As is my grief, or lesser than my name!
Or that I could forget what I have been !
Or not remember what I must be now !

Richard II. A. 3, S. 3.

Still my griefs are mine.
You may my glories and my state depose,
But not my griefs; ftill am I king of those.

Richard II. A. 4, S. 1.

My grief lies all within ;
And these external manners of lament
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief,
That swells with silence in the tortur'd soul.

Richard II. A. 4, S. 1.
Ere thou bid good night, to quit their grief,
Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,
And send the hearers weeping to their beds.

Richard II. A. 5, S. 1. Thou, the model where old Troy did stand; Thou map of honour; thou most beauteous inn,



îhall look upon

Why should hard-favour'd grief be lodg'd in thee, When triumph is become an ale-house guest ?

Richard II. A. 5, S. 1.

My grief. Stretches itself beyond the hour of death ; ... The blood weeps from my heart, when I do shape, In forms imaginary, the unguided days, And rotten times, that you When I am sleeping with my ancestors.

Henry IV. P. 2, A. 4, S. 4.
As the wretch, whose fever-weakend joints,
Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life,
Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire
Out of his keeper's arms : even so my limbs,
Weaken’d with grief, being now enrag'd with grief,
Are thrice themselves. Henry IV. P. 2, A. 1, S. 1.
I have in equal balance justly weigh'd
What wrongs our arms may do, what wrongs we

And find our griefs heavier than our offences.
We see which way the stream of time doth run,
And are enforc'd from our most quiet sphere,
By the rough torrent of occasion.

Henry IV. P. 2, A. 4, S. 1.

I sent your grace The parcels and particulars of our grief; The which hath been with scorn Thov'd from the

court, Whereon this hydra son of war is born : Whose dangerous eyes may well be charm'd asleep, With grant of our most just and right desires.

Henry IV. P. 2, A. 4, S. 2.

When your head did but ake, I knit


handkerchief about your brows, And with my hand at midnight held your head; And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,


Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time;
Saying, what lack you ? and, where lies your grief?

King John, A. 4, S. i.
Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief.

King John, A. 3, S. 4. Preach some philosophy to make me mad, And thou shalt be canoniz'd cardinal; For, being not mad, but sensible of grief, My reasonable part produces reason How I may be deliver'd of these woes.

King John, A. 3, S. 41 I am not mad ;-I would to heaven, I were ! For then 'tis like I should forget myself: Oh, if I could, what grief should I forget !

King John, A. 3, S. 4d

My grief's so great,
That no supporter but the huge firm earth
Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit;
Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.

King John, A. 3, S. S.
I will instruct my forrows to be proud :
For grief is proud, and makes his owner stout ;
To me, and to the state of my great grief,
Let kings afsemble. King John, A. 3, S. 1.

'Tis better to be lowly born, And range

with humble livers in content, Than to be perk’d up in a glistering grief, And wear a golden forrow. Henry VIII. A. 2, S. 3, These eyes-like lamps whose wasting oil is spent, Wax dim, as drawing to their exigent: Weak shoulders, over-borne with burthening grief,


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