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The Comedies, Histories, Tragedies, and Poems of William Shakspere, Volumen2
Vista de fragmentos - 1851
Act II Angelo Anne answer Appears bear BEAT believe better bring brother CLAUD Claudio comes daughter death desire doth DUKE Enter Exeunt Exit eyes fair faith father fear folio follow fool FORD friar give grace hand hang hast hath head hear heard heart heaven Hero hold honour HOST hour husband I'll ISAB John keep kind king lady leave LEON live look lord LUCIO marry master means mind mistress nature never night original PAGE passage PEDRO play poor pray present prince queen QUICK reading reason SCENE sense Shakspere speak spirit stand strange sure sweet tell thank thee thing thou thou art thought TOUCH true wife woman young youth
Página 580 - Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits, and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on ; and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.
Página 284 - O fellow, come, the song we had last night: Mark it, Cesario; it is old and plain: The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids that weave their thread with bones, Do use to chant it ; it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age.
Página 554 - All things in common nature should produce Without sweat or endeavour : treason, felony, Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine, Would I not have ; but nature should bring forth, Of its own kind, all foison, all abundance, To feed my innocent people.
Página 424 - Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down ; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own ; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.
Página 285 - My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, 0 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 strewn; Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown. A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, 0, where Sad true lover never flnd my grave, To weep there.