The Handy-volume Shakspeare, Volume 1

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Bradbury, Agnew, and Company, 1866
 

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Page 121 - The current, that with gentle murmur glides, Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage; But, when his fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet music with the enamell'd stones, Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge He overtaketh in his pilgrimage, And so by many winding nooks he strays, With willing sport, to- the wild ocean.
Page 69 - And mine shall. Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling Of their afflictions, and shall not myself, One of their kind, that relish all as sharply Passion as they, be kindlier mov'd than thou art ? Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick, Yet, with my nobler reason, '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.
Page 71 - Where the bee sucks, there suck I ; In a cowslip's bell I lie : There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly, After summer, merrily : Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
Page 52 - Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices, That, if I then had waked after long sleep, Will make me sleep again : and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open, and show riches Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked, I cried to dream again.
Page 18 - em. Caliban. I must eat my dinner. This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother, Which thou tak'st from me. When thou earnest first, Thou strok'dst me and mad'st much of me, wouldst give me Water with berries in't, and teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night : and then I lov'd thee, And show'd thee all the qualities o' th' isle, The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile.
Page 20 - Where should this music be ? i' the air, or the earth It sounds no more ; — and sure, it waits upon Some god of the island. Sitting on a bank, Weeping again the king my father's wreck, This music crept by me upon the waters ; Allaying both their fury, and my passion, With its sweet air: thence I have followed it, Or it hath drawn me rather : — But 'tis gone.
Page 75 - O, wonder ! How many goodly creatures are there here ! How beauteous mankind is ! O, brave new world, That has such people in't ! Pro. Tis new to thee.
Page 38 - A strange fish ! Were I in England now,— as once I was, — and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver : there would this monster make a man ; any strange beast there makes a man : when they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian.
Page 70 - Some heavenly music, which even now I do, To work mine end upon their senses that This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, And deeper than did ever plummet sound I'll drown my book.
Page 19 - Know thine own meaning, but would'st gabble like A thing most brutish, I endow'd thy purposes With words that made them known : but thy vile race, Though thou didst learn, had that in't which good natures Could not abide to be with ; therefore wast thou Deservedly confined into this rock, Who hadst deserved more than a prison.

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