The Works of William Shakespeare: In Nine Volumes, Volume 1
Munroe, Francis & Parker, 1810
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Page 43 - Be not afeard ; the isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears ; and sometimes voices, That, if I then had wak'd after long sleep, Will make me sleep again...
Page 25 - Well believe this, No ceremony that to great ones 'longs, Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, Become them with one half so good a grace, As mercy does.
Page 6 - That, to the observer, doth thy history Fully unfold: Thyself and thy belongings Are not thine own so proper, as to waste Thyself upon thy virtues, them on thee. Heaven doth with us, as we with torches do; Not light them for themselves: for if our virtues Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike As if we had them not.
Page 39 - Ay, but to die, and go we know not where ; To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot ; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod ; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods...
Page 27 - All things in common nature should produce Without sweat or endeavour : treason, felony, Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine, Would I not have ; but nature should bring forth, Of its own kind, all foison, all abundance, To feed my innocent people.
Page 17 - His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.
Page 35 - Duke. Be absolute for death ; either death or life Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with life, — If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing That none but fools would keep : a breath thou art...
Page 56 - Some heavenly music— which even now I do— To work mine end upon their senses that This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, And deeper than did ever plummet sound I'll drown my book.
Page 30 - He makes sweet music with the enamel'd stones. Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge He overtaketh in his pilgrimage ; And so by many winding nooks he strays. With willing sport, to the wild ocean.
Page 30 - This, therefore, is the praise of Shakespeare, that his drama is the mirror of life; that he who has mazed his imagination in following the phantoms which other writers raise up before him may here be cured of his delirious ecstasies by reading human sentiments in human language, by scenes from which a hermit may estimate the transactions of the world and a confessor predict the progress of the passions.