Anecdotes of Polite Literature ...

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Сторінка 134 - That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth! Must I remember? why, she would hang on him, As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on; and yet, within a month, Let me not think on't: Frailty, thy name is woman!
Сторінка 185 - Good heav'ns, is this, — is this the man who braves me? Who bids my age make way, drives me before him, To the world's ridge, and sweeps me off like rubbish?
Сторінка 135 - Let me not think on't; frailty, thy name is woman A little month, or ere those shoes were old With which she...
Сторінка 42 - James, in which this tragedy was written, many circumstances concurred to propagate and confirm this opinion. The king, who was much celebrated for his knowledge, had, before his arrival in England, not only examined in person a woman accused of witchcraft but had given a very formal account of the practices and...
Сторінка 135 - ... uncle, My father's brother, but no more like my father Than I to Hercules: within a month, Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, She married.
Сторінка 40 - IN order to make a true estimate of the abilities and merit of a writer, it is always necessary to examine the genius of his age, and the opinions of his contemporaries.
Сторінка 43 - Shakespeare might be easily allowed to found a play, especially since he has followed with great exactness such histories as were then thought true ; nor can it be doubted that the scenes of enchantment, however they may now be ridiculed, were both by himself and his audience thought awful and affecting.
Сторінка 135 - But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two: So excellent a king; that was, to this, Hyperion to a...
Сторінка 85 - I arrest you in the name of mercy, And dare compel your stay: Is then one look, One word, one moment, a last moment too, When I stand tottering on the brink of death, A cruel ignominious death, too much For one that loves like me ? A length of years You may devote to my blest rival's arms, I ask but one short moment.
Сторінка 96 - Christian, thou mistak'st my character. Look on me. Who am I ? I know, thou say'st The Moor, a slave, an abject, beaten slave (Eternal woes to him that made me so!): But look again. Has six years cruel bondage...

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