The spirit of the plays of Shakspeare: exhibited in a series of outline plates illustrative of the story of each play, Zväzok 1

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T. Cadell, 1833

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Strana 17 - O, it is monstrous ! monstrous ! Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it ; The winds did sing it to me ; and the thunder, That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounced The name of Prosper ; it did bass my trespass. Therefore my son i' the ooze is bedded ; and I'll seek him deeper than e'er plummet sounded, And with him there lie mudded.
Strana 99 - 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.
Strana 97 - Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on : Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive, If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy.
Strana 226 - Now it is the time of night That the graves all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite, In the church-way paths to glide : And we fairies, that do run By the triple Hecate's team, From the presence of the sun, Following darkness like a dream, Now are frolic : not a mouse Shall disturb this hallow'd house : I am sent with broom before, To sweep the dust behind the door.
Strana 13 - I'd divide, And burn in many places ; on the top-mast. The yards, and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly, Then meet, and join. Jove's lightnings, the precursors O' the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary And sight-out-running were not.
Strana 99 - Too well what love women to men may owe : In faith, they are as true of heart as we. My father had a daughter loved a man, As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, I should your lordship. » Duke. And what's her history ? Vio. A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i...
Strana 13 - If by your art, my dearest father, you have Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them : The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch, But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek, Dashes the fire out.

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