The Plays of William Shakespeare in Ten Volumes: With Corrections and Illustrations of Various Commentators, Volum 10

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Pàgina 252 - ... this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
Pàgina 346 - ild you! They say the owl was a baker's daughter. Lord! we know what we are, but know not what we may be.
Pàgina 191 - Like Niobe, all tears; why she, even she, — O God ! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, Would have mourn'd longer, — married with my uncle, My father's brother, but no more like my father Than I to Hercules...
Pàgina 208 - That for some vicious mole of nature in them, As, in their birth, wherein they are not guilty, (Since nature cannot choose his origin), By the o'ergrowth of some complexion, Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason, Or by some habit that too much o'er-leavens The form of plausive manners; that these men, Carrying I say the stamp of one defect, Being nature's livery, or fortune's star...
Pàgina 201 - Neither a borrower nor a lender be ; For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
Pàgina 59 - My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite.
Pàgina 405 - Hamlet wrong'd Laertes ? Never Hamlet : If Hamlet from himself be ta'en away, And, when he's not himself, does wrong Laertes, Then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it. Who does it then ? His madness ; if 't be so, Hamlet is of the faction that is wrong'd ; His madness is poor Hamlet's enemy.
Pàgina 620 - Demand me nothing: What you know, you know: From this time forth I never will speak word.
Pàgina 109 - Wilt thou be gone ? it is not yet near day : It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree. Believe me. love, it was the nightingale.
Pàgina 309 - ... upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.

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