The Works of Shakespeare: Tempest ; Two gentlemen of Verona ; Merry wives of Windsor ; Twelfth night ; Measure for measure ; Much ado about nothing ; Midsummer night's dream ; Love's labour's lost
Estes and Lauriat, 1871
Angelo Beat Beatrice Benedick better brother Caius Caliban Claud Claudio Collier Collier's folio Costard Dogb dost doth Duke Enter Escal Exeunt Exit eyes fair fairy Falstaff father fool Ford friar gentle gentleman Gentlemen of Verona give grace hand hath hear heart heaven Hermia Hero honour Host Illyria Isab King lady Laun Leon Leonato look lord Love's Labour's Lost Lucio Lysander madam maid Malvolio marry master master doctor means Measure for Measure merry mind mistress Moth never night old copies passage Pedro play Poet Poet's Pompey pray Proteus Prov Puck reading SCENE sense Shakespeare Shal signior Silvia Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK Sir Toby Slen soul speak Speed spirit sweet tell thee there's Theseus thing thou art Thurio tongue true Twelfth Night Valentine woman word
Página 9 - The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the Storm Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form By silent sympathy. 'The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
Página 347 - 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.
Página 329 - Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten: In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs, All these in me no means can move To come to thee, and be thy love.
Página 131 - The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite ; a feeling and a love,* That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.— That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures.
Página 90 - twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault Set roaring war; to the dread, rattling thunder Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak With his own bolt; the strong-bas'd promontory Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck'd up The pine and cedar.
Página lxi - WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, and what he hath left us. To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy book and fame, While I confess thy writings to be such As neither man nor muse can praise too much.
Página lxvi - For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art, Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart • Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book, Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make us marble, with too much conceiving ; And, so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
Página 328 - Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold. A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my love.
Página 55 - A strange fish ! Were I in England now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver : there would this monster make a man; any strange beast there makes a man : when they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian. Legged like a man ! and his fins like arms ! Warm o...
Página lxi - My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further, to make thee a room: Thou art a monument without a tomb, And art alive still while thy book doth live And we have wits to read and praise to give.