Airy Nothings: Or, What You Will

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Sturgis & Walton Company, 1917 - 142 páginas

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Página 21 - Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, And after one hour more 'twill be eleven ; And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot ; And thereby hangs a tale.
Página 39 - I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe; Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain, Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburned brain.
Página 27 - The moon shines bright : in such a night as this, When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees And they did make no noise, in such a night Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls, And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents, Where Cressid lay that night.
Página 102 - And let those, that play your clowns, speak no more than is set down for them : for there be of them, that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too ; though, in the mean time, some necessary question}: of the play be then to be considered : that's villainous ; and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it.
Página 10 - How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty? Lear. You do me wrong, to take me out o' the grave. — Thou art a soul in bliss ; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead.
Página 129 - Or the nard in the fire ? Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!
Página 123 - HENCE, all you vain delights. As short as are the nights, Wherein you spend your folly: There's nought in this life sweet If man were wise to see't, But only melancholy...
Página 17 - I have always maintained, that any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity. Of Mr. Boswell's truth I have not the least suspicion, because I am sure he could invent nothing of this kind. The true title of this part of his work is, A Dialogue between a Green-goose and a Hero.
Página 122 - At cards for kisses; Cupid paid. He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, His Mother's doves, and team of sparrows; Loses them too; then, down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing...
Página 125 - My Love in her attire doth show her wit, It doth so well become her : For every season she hath dressings fit, For Winter, Spring, and Summer. No beauty she doth miss When all her robes are on : But Beauty's self she is When all her robes are gone.

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