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Anon Autolycus Baptista Becket conj Bertram better Bianca Bion Biondello Bohemia Cambridge Camillo Capell conj cloth College Collier Collier Count Crown 8vo daughter Duke Dyce Enter Exeunt Exit father Fcap Fellow Ff Q Folio fool Gent gentleman Gremio Hanmer hast hath hear Heath conj heaven Hermione honour Hortensio Illyria is't Johnson conj Kate Kath Katharina King knave lady Leon line in Ff lord Lucentio madam Malone conj Malvolio marry master mistress Olivia Padua Petruchio Pope pray prithee Rann Re-enter Rousillon Rowe Rowe ed Scene Second Edition servant Shep Sicilia Signior Sir Toby sirrah speak Steevens sweet tell thee Theobald conj there's thine thou art Tranio Trinity College University of Cambridge Walker conj Warburton wife
Página 381 - O Proserpina, For the flowers now that frighted thou let'st fall From Dis's waggon! daffodils That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses, That die unmarried, ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength — a malady Most incident to maids; bold oxlips and The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, The flower-de-luce being one!
Página 380 - But nature makes that mean : so, over that art Which you say adds to nature, is an art That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry A gentler scion to the wildest stock, And make conceive a bark of baser kind By bud of nobler race : this is an art Which does mend nature, change it rather, but The art itself is nature.
Página 114 - Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to heaven : the fated sky Gives us free scope; only, doth backward pull Our slow designs, when we ourselves are dull.
Página 252 - ... 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.
Página 182 - The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together : our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our virtues.