Cymbeline

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James Forsyth, Leadenhall Street, and John Greig, High Street, Edinburgh, 1811
 

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Página 81 - Sc. 2. no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the frown o' the great; Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak : The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust.
Página 378 - Come on, sir; here's the place: — stand still. — How fearful And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eyes so low! The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air, Show scarce so gross as beetles : Half way down Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade! Methinks, he seems no bigger than his head: The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, Appear like mice; and yon...
Página 352 - Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these?
Página 307 - This is the excellent foppery of the world ! that, when we are sick in fortune, (often the surfeit of our own behaviour,) we make guilty of our disasters, the sun, the moon, and the stars...
Página 382 - With a more riotous appetite. Down from the waist they are Centaurs, Though women all above : But to the girdle do the gods inherit, Beneath is all the fiends' ; there's hell, there's darkness, there is the sulphurous pit, burning, scalding, stench, consumption ; — fie, fie, fie ! pah, pah ! Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination : there's money for thee.
Página 297 - For, by the sacred radiance of the sun ; The mysteries of Hecate, and the night : By all the operations of the orbs, From whom we do exist, and cease to be : Here I disclaim all my paternal care, Propinquity and property of blood, And as a stranger to my heart and me Hold thee, from this, for ever.
Página 296 - 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.
Página 33 - SONG Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus gins arise His steeds to water at those springs On chalic'd flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes; With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise, Arise, arise.
Página 378 - ... down Hangs one that gathers samphire, — dreadful trade ! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head : The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, Appear like mice ; and yond...
Página 390 - Pray, do not mock me : I am a very foolish fond old man, Fourscore and upward ; and, to deal plainly, I fear, I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks, I should know you, and know this man ; Yet I am doubtful: for I am mainly ignorant What place this is; and all the skill I have Remembers not these garments; nor I know not Where I did lodge last night : Do not laugh at me; For, as I am a man, I think this lady To be my child Cordelia.

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