Alexander's Modern Acting Drama: Consisting of the Most Popular Plays Produced at the Philadelphia Theatres and Elsewhere, Volume 4

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Carey & Hart, 1835

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Page 7 - But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes ; Again she falls, again she dies...
Page 85 - It is most true ; true, I have married her : The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech, And little bless'd with the soft phrase of peace ; For since these arms of mine had seven years...
Page 118 - But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks! It is the east, and Juliet is the sun ! Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid art far more fair than she...
Page 8 - Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves when he did sing ; To his music plants and flowers Ever sprung, as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring.
Page 125 - And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you; But you at your sick service had a prince. Nay, you may think my love was crafty love And call it cunning : do, an if you will: If heaven be pleased that you must use me ill, Why then you must.
Page 126 - This royal infant (Heaven still move about her!) Though in her cradle, yet now promises Upon this land a thousand , thousand blessings , Which time shall bring to ripeness : she shall be (But few now living can behold that goodness) A pattern to all princes living with her, And all that shall succeed.
Page 15 - If mortals who cannot exist upon air Could see us at dinner, ye gods, how they'd stare ; See us hydrogen quaff and on oxygen fare, Singing, ' Oh, the roast beef of Olympus, And oh, the Olympic roast beef.
Page 126 - Shakspeare, that, take him for all in all, we shall not look upon his like again.
Page 103 - And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead; Go to thy death-bed, He never will come again. His beard was as white as snow All flaxen was his poll, He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan: God ha
Page 124 - You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both! If it be you that stir these daughters...

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