Ben Jonson: Volpone; or, The fox. Epicœne; or, The silent woman. The alchemist

T.F. Unwin, 1894

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Página 30 - Puh! nor your diamond. What a needless care Is this afflicts you? Is not all here yours? Am not I here, whom you have made your creature? That owe my being to you?
Página 75 - That the curious shall not know How to tell them as they flow; And the envious, when they find What their number is, be pined.
Página 138 - Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast ; Still to be powdered, still perfumed : Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Página 73 - Come, my Celia, let us prove While we can, the sports of love, •Time will not be ours for ever, He, at length, our good will sever ; Spend not then his gifts in vain : Suns that set may rise again ; But if once we lose this light, 'Tis with us perpetual night. Why should we defer our joys ? Fame and rumour are but toys.
Página 334 - Yes. Mam. Why, you are like it. You were created, lady, for the light. Here, you shall wear it ; take it, the first pledge Of what I speak, to bind you to believe me. Dol. In chains of adamant ? Mam.
Página 45 - You all know, honourable gentlemen, I never valued this ampulla, or vial, at less than eight crowns ; but for this time, I am content to be deprived of it for six: six crowns is the price, and less in courtesy I know you cannot offer me ; take it or leave it, howsoever, both it and I am at your service. I ask you not as the value of the thing, for then I should demand of you a thousand crowns, so the cardinals...
Página 285 - Has worn his knees bare, and his slippers bald, With prayer and fasting for it : and, sir, let him Do it alone, for me, still.
Página 292 - And hath more dryness, it becomes a stone : Where it retains more of the humid fatness, It turns to sulphur, or to quicksilver, Who are the parents of all other metals. Nor can this remote matter suddenly Progress so from extreme unto extreme, As to grow gold, and leap o'er all the means. Nature doth first beget the imperfect, then Proceeds she to the perfect.
Página 134 - The poet prays you then, with better thought To sit ; and when his cates are all in brought, Though there be none far-fet...
Página 277 - O, I did look for him With the sun's rising: 'marvel he could sleep! This is the day I am to perfect for him...

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