The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, Band 6

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Jefferson Press, 1907

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Seite 3 - 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.
Seite 24 - Ay, but yet Let us be keen, and rather cut a little, Than fall, and bruise to death : Alas ! this gentleman, Whom I would save, had a most noble father. Let but your honour know...
Seite 63 - 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, or to reside In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendent world: or to be worse than worst Of those that lawless and incertain thought Imagine howling: — 'tis too horrible!
Seite 48 - ... cypress' let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it! My part of death, no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown; Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown: A thousand thousand sighs to save. Lay me. O. where Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there!
Seite 41 - Could great men thunder As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet, For every pelting, petty officer, Would use his heaven for thunder ; Nothing but thunder.
Seite 48 - Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid ; Fly away, fly away, breath ; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it ! My part of death, no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown...
Seite 50 - A blank, my lord : She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek : she pined in thought; And, with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief.
Seite 41 - O ! it is excellent To have a giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous To use it like a giant.
Seite 120 - When that I was and a little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain; A foolish thing was but a toy, For the rain it raineth every day.
Seite 5 - 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.

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