The Works of Shakespeare: In Eight Volumes : Collated with the Oldest Copies, and Corrected, with Notes, Explanatory, and Critical, Volum 8C. Hitch and L. Hawes, J. and R. Tonson, B. Dod, G. Woodfall, J. Rivington, R. Baldwin, T. Longman, S. Crowder and Company, W. Johnson, C. Corbet, T. Lownds, and T. Caslon, 1762 |
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Resultats 6 - 10 de 100.
Pàgina 54
... Prince , muft give ; Romeo flew Tybalt , Romeo muft not live . Prin . Romeo flew him , he flew Mercutio ; Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe ? La . Mont . Not Romeo , Prince , he was Mercutio's friend ; His fault concludes but ...
... Prince , muft give ; Romeo flew Tybalt , Romeo muft not live . Prin . Romeo flew him , he flew Mercutio ; Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe ? La . Mont . Not Romeo , Prince , he was Mercutio's friend ; His fault concludes but ...
Pàgina 60
... Prince's doon ? What forrow craves acquaintance at my hand , That I yet know not ? Fri. Too familiar Is my dear on with fuch fow'r company . I bring thee tidings of the Prince's doom ? Rom . What lefs than dooms - day is the Prince's ...
... Prince's doon ? What forrow craves acquaintance at my hand , That I yet know not ? Fri. Too familiar Is my dear on with fuch fow'r company . I bring thee tidings of the Prince's doom ? Rom . What lefs than dooms - day is the Prince's ...
Pàgina 61
... Prince , Taking thy part , hath rufht afide the law , And turn'd that black word death to banishment . This is dear mercy , and thou seeft it not . Rom . ' Tis torture , and not mercy : heav'n is here , Where Juliet lives ; and every ...
... Prince , Taking thy part , hath rufht afide the law , And turn'd that black word death to banishment . This is dear mercy , and thou seeft it not . Rom . ' Tis torture , and not mercy : heav'n is here , Where Juliet lives ; and every ...
Pàgina 64
... Prince , and call thee back With twenty hundred thousand times more joy , Than thou went'ft forth in lamentation . Go before , nurfe ; commend me to thy lady , And bid her haften all the house to bed , Which heavy forrow makes them apt ...
... Prince , and call thee back With twenty hundred thousand times more joy , Than thou went'ft forth in lamentation . Go before , nurfe ; commend me to thy lady , And bid her haften all the house to bed , Which heavy forrow makes them apt ...
Pàgina 95
... Prince , run to the Capulets , Raife up the Montagues ; fome others , fearch- We fee the ground whereon these woes do lie : But the true ground of all thefe piteous woes We cannot without circumftance defcry . Enter Enter fome of the ...
... Prince , run to the Capulets , Raife up the Montagues ; fome others , fearch- We fee the ground whereon these woes do lie : But the true ground of all thefe piteous woes We cannot without circumftance defcry . Enter Enter fome of the ...
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The Works of Shakespeare: In Eight Volumes. Collated with the Oldest Copies ... William Shakespeare Visualització completa - 1740 |
The Works of Shakespeare: In Eight Volumes ; Collated with the ..., Volum 8 William Shakespeare Visualització completa - 1740 |
Frases i termes més freqüents
againſt Benvolio Brabantio Caffio Capulet Clown Cyprus dead dear death Defdemona Denmark doft thou doth Duke Emil Enter ev'n Exeunt Exit eyes faid fair Farewel father feems feen fenfe fhall fhew fhould firft flain fleep fome Fortinbras foul fpeak Friar Lawrence ftand ftill fuch fure fweet fword gentlemen give Hamlet hath hear heart heav'n himſelf honeft Horatio houfe huſband Iago is't itſelf Juliet King lady Laer Laertes lago look Lord Madam Mantua marry Mercutio moft Moor moſt muft murder muſt myſelf night Nurfe Nurſe Ophelia Othello Perfon poifon Polonius pray Quarto Queen reafon reft Rodorigo Romeo SCENE ſhall ſhe ſpeak tell thee thefe there's theſe thing thofe thou art to-night Tybalt uſe villain whofe wife William Shakespeare yourſelf
Passatges populars
Pàgina 32 - What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. O! be some other name: What's in a name?
Pàgina 190 - What is a man, If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and god-like reason To fust in us unus'd.
Pàgina 251 - That I did love the Moor to live with him, My downright violence and storm of fortunes May trumpet to the world ; my heart's subdued Even to the very quality of my lord : I saw Othello's visage in his mind ; And to his honours, and his valiant parts, Did I my soul and fortunes consecrate.
Pàgina 210 - I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come ; make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing. Hor. What's that, my lord? Ham. Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this fashion i
Pàgina 114 - ... uncle, My father's brother, but no more like my father Than I to Hercules: within a month, Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, She married.
Pàgina 175 - In the corrupted currents of this world Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice; And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself Buys out the law. But 'tis not...
Pàgina 160 - Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue : but if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines.
Pàgina 120 - Are most select and generous, chief in that. Neither a borrower nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
Pàgina 66 - It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale ; look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops; I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Pàgina 36 - Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone: And yet no further than a wanton's bird; Who lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty.