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Sida 331 - In the corrupted currents of this world, Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice, And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself Buys out the law; but 'tis not so above; There is no shuffling, there the action lies In his true nature, and we ourselves compell'd, Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults To give in evidence.
Sida 463 - O now, for ever, Farewell the tranquil mind ! Farewell content ! Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars, That make ambition virtue ! O, farewell ! Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, The royal banner ; and all quality. Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war ! And O, you mortal engines, whose rude throats The immortal Jove's dread clamours counterfeit, Farewell ! Othello's occupation's gone ! lago.
Sida 335 - The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. See what a grace was seated on this brow ; Hyperion's curls, the front of Jove himself, An eye like Mars, to threaten and command; A station like the herald Mercury New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ; A combination and a form indeed, Where every god did seem to set his seal To give the world assurance of a man : This was your husband.
Sida 349 - Of thinking too precisely on the event, A thought which quarter'd, hath but one part wisdom And ever three parts coward, I do not know Why yet I live to say ' This thing's to do;' Sith I have cause and will and strength and means To do't.
Sida 13 - Why have my sisters husbands, if they say They love you all ? Haply, when I shall wed, That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry Half my love with him, half my care and duty : Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters, To love my father all.
Sida 197 - Romeo; and, when he shall die. Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine, That all the world will be in love with night, And pay no worship to the garish sun.
Sida 133 - The weight of this sad time we must obey ; Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most : we, that are young, Shall never see so much, nor live so long.
Sida 169 - But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks! It is the east, and Juliet is the sun ! — Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid art far more fair than she...
Sida 278 - But that I am forbid To tell the secrets of my prison-house, I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood...
Sida 120 - I'll kneel down, And ask of thee forgiveness : so we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues Talk of court news ; and we'll talk with them too, Who loses and who wins ; who's in, who's out ; And take...