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 tale

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Pàgina 118 - Such duty as the subject owes the prince Even such a woman oweth to her husband ; And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour, And not obedient to his honest will. What is she but a foul contending rebel And graceless traitor to her loving lord?
Pàgina 454 - 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.
Pàgina 267 - 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.
Pàgina 438 - 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!
Pàgina 138 - 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.
Pàgina 455 - 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; bold oxlips and The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, The flower-de-luce being one!
Pàgina 305 - 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!
Pàgina 221 - 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.
Pàgina 307 - 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.

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