Shakspere: His Inner Life as Intimated in His Works

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J. Maxwell, 1865 - 521 стор.
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Сторінка 177 - Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger, washes all the air, That rheumatic diseases do abound : And thorough this distemperature we see The seasons alter : hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set.
Сторінка 125 - O ! who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus ? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast...
Сторінка 273 - If the balance of our lives had not one scale of reason to poise another of sensuality, the blood and baseness of our natures would conduct us to most preposterous conclusions : but we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts ; whereof I take this, that you call love, to be a sect or scion.
Сторінка 492 - Which hides your life and shows not half your parts. If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say 'This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.
Сторінка 8 - Yet must I not give Nature all; thy art, My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part. For though the poet's matter nature be, His art doth give the fashion; and, that he Who casts to write a living line, must sweat, (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat Upon the Muses...
Сторінка 392 - Hence in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be, Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither, Can in a moment travel thither, And see the Children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
Сторінка 100 - t, that the opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice : Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not...
Сторінка 221 - Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were To see thee in our waters yet appear, And make those flights upon the banks of Thames, That so did take Eliza, and our James!
Сторінка 44 - Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred in a book ; He hath not eat paper, as it were ; he hath not drunk ink ; his intellect is not replenished ; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts...
Сторінка 134 - Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. What do I fear? Myself? There's none else by. Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I. Is there a murderer here? No— yes, I am. Then fly. What, from myself? Great reason why— Lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself! Alack, I love myself. Wherefore? For any good That I myself have done unto myself? O, no! Alas, I rather hate myself For hateful deeds committed by myself!

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