The Plays of William Shakespeare. In Ten Volumes: King Richard III ; King Henry VIII ; Coriolanus

Portada
C. Bathurst, J. Beecroft, W. Strahan, J. and F. Rivington, J. Hinton, L. Davis, Hawes, Clarke and Collins, R. Horsfield, W. Johnston, W. Owen, T. Caslon, E. Johnson, S. Crowder, B. White, T. Longman, B. Law, E. and C. Dilly, C. Corbett, W. Griffin, T. Cadell, W. Woodfall, G. Keith, T. Lowndes, T. Davies, J. Robson, T. Becket, F. Newbery, G. Robinson, T. Payne, J. Williams, M. Hingeston, and J. Ridley., 1773
 

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Pàgina 3 - That dogs bark at me as I halt by them; 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 242 - O, how wretched Is that poor man, that hangs on princes' favours ! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,* More pangs and fears than wars or women have ; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.
Pàgina 242 - I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory ; But far beyond my depth ; my high-blown pride At length broke under me ; and now has left me, Weary, and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Pàgina 2 - I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling Nature, Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time Into this breathing world scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them...
Pàgina 244 - Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell; And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee; Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of...
Pàgina 203 - sa stranger now again. Anne. So much the more Must pity drop upon her. Verily, I swear, 't is better to be lowly born, And range with humble livers in content, Than to be perked up in a glistering grief, And wear a golden sorrow.

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