Shakspere: A Critical Study of His Mind and Art, Band 70

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Kegan Paul, Trench, 1883 - 434 Seiten

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Seite 240 - As I am an honest man, I thought you had received some bodily wound ; there is more offence in that than in reputation. Reputation is an idle and most false imposition ; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving : you have lost no reputation at all, unless you repute yourself such a loser.
Seite 174 - And the armies which were in heaven followed him upon white horses, clothed in fine linen, white and clean. And out of his mouth goeth a sharp sword, that with it he should smite the nations : and he shall rule them with a rod of iron : and he treadeth the winepress of the fierceness and wrath of Almighty God. And he hath on his vesture and on his thigh a name written, King of Kings, and Lord of Lords.
Seite 411 - gainst my fury Do I take part. The rarer action is In virtue, than in vengeance : they being penitent, The sole drift of my purpose doth extend Not a frown further.
Seite 199 - This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall, Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands, This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, Fear'd by their breed and famous by their birth...
Seite 77 - I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation ; nor the musician's which is fantastical ; nor the courtier's, which is proud ; nor the soldier's, which is ambitious ; nor the lawyer's, which is politic ; nor the lady's, which is nice ; nor the lover's, which is all these : but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.
Seite 367 - ... the tide: for after I saw him fumble with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile upon his fingers' ends, I knew there was but one way ; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and a babbled of green fields.
Seite 255 - She should have died hereafter ; There would have been a time for such a word. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death.
Seite 217 - I know thee not, old man: Fall to thy prayers ; How ill white hairs become a fool, and jester!
Seite 288 - And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge, With Ate by his side come hot from hell, Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice Cry 'Havoc!' and let slip the dogs of war; That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.
Seite 345 - I saw young Harry,— with his beaver on, His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm'd, — Rise from the ground like feather'd Mercury, And vaulted with such ease into his seat, As if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds, To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus, And witch the world with noble horsemanship.

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