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Сторінка 139 - If music be the food of love, play on ; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die. That strain again ! it had a dying fall : O ! it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour.
Сторінка 176 - Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid ; Fly away, fly away, breath ; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O ! 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 strown ; Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown : A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O ! where Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there.
Сторінка 168 - O mistress mine, where are you roaming? O stay and hear; your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low. Trip no further, pretty sweeting; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know.
Сторінка 369 - I'll speak all. They say, best men are moulded out of faults; And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad ; so may my husband.
Сторінка 293 - Alas ! alas ! Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once; And He that might the vantage best have took, Found out the remedy: How would you be, If he, which is the top of judgment, should But judge you as you are? O, think on that; And mercy then will breathe within your lips, Like man new made.
Сторінка 295 - Than the soft myrtle ; but man, proud man ! Drest in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he's most assur'd, His glassy essence, like an angry ape, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, As make the angels weep ; who, with our spleens, Would all themselves laugh mortal.
Сторінка 313 - tis too horrible. The weariest and most loathed worldly life, That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment Can lay on nature is a paradise To what we fear of death.
Сторінка 175 - 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 chaunt it ; it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age.