Fair Rosamond; or, The days of king Henry ii

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Pàgina 102 - Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, . Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun And descant on mine own deformity: And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, To entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Pàgina 179 - Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, — The seasons' difference : as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, Which when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say, This is no flattery : these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Pàgina 91 - LEAR. Let the great gods, That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads, Find out their enemies now.
Pàgina 179 - The seasons' difference ; as, the icy fang, And churlish chiding of the winter's wind ; Which when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say, — This is no flattery : these are counsellors, That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Pàgina 77 - But when we in our viciousness grow hard, — O misery on't! — the wise gods seal our eyes ; In our own filth drop our clear judgments ; make us Adore our errors ; laugh at 's, while we strut To our confusion.
Pàgina 181 - Why, what should be the fear? I do not set my life at a pin's fee; And for my soul, what can it do to that, Being a thing immortal as itself?
Pàgina 236 - Most curiously that bower was built Of stone and timber strong, An hundred and fifty doors Did to this bower belong : And they so cunninglye contriv'd With turnings round about, That none but with a clue of thread, Could enter in or out.
Pàgina 266 - In saffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask, and antique pageantry; Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream.
Pàgina 207 - Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York ; And all the clouds, that lowered upon our house, In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths ; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments; Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Pàgina 124 - Tis her breathing that Perfumes the chamber thus : the flame o' the taper Bows toward her, and would under-peep her lids...

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