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 The seasons' difference; as, the icy fang, And churlish chiding of the winter's wind; Which when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say,— This is no flattery: these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me...  Much ado about nothing. The marchant of Venice. Love's labour lost. As you ... - Strana 312 podľa William Shakespeare - 1747 Úplné zobrazenie -
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