Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volumen33

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W. Blackwood & Sons, 1833
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Página 151 - Pray, do not mock me. I am a very foolish fond old man, Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less; And, to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you, and know this man; Yet I am doubtful; for I am mainly ignorant What place this is; and all the skill I have Remembers not these garments; nor I know not Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me; For (as I am a man) I think this lady To be my child Cordelia.
Página 390 - The expectancy and rose of the fair state, The glass of fashion, and the mould of form, The observ'd of all observers ! quite, quite down ! And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, That suck'd the honey of his music vows, Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh...
Página 395 - Must there no more be done ? We should profane the service of the dead To sing a requiem, and such rest to her, As to peace-parted souls. Laer. Lay her i...
Página 539 - Under the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, And tune his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat — Come hither, come hither, come hither! Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun And loves to live i' the sun, Seeking the food he eats And pleased with what he gets — Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Página 151 - O, look upon me, sir, And hold your hands in benediction o'er me: No, sir, you must not kneel.
Página 539 - Ay, now am I in Arden ; the more fool I ; when I was at home, I was in a better place : but travellers must be content.
Página 152 - Thou'dst meet the bear i' the mouth. When the mind's free The body's delicate; the tempest in my mind Doth from my senses take all feeling else Save what beats there.
Página 127 - Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave My heart into my mouth : I love your majesty According to my bond ; nor more nor less.
Página 437 - Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast, Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge. And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With deaf ning clamours in the slippery clouds...
Página 153 - I was many years ago so shocked by Cordelia's death that I know not whether I ever endured to read again the last scenes of the play till I undertook to revise them as an editor.

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