The Life of Shakespeare: Enquiries Into the Originality of His Dramatic Plots and Characters; and Essays on the Ancient Theatres and Theatrical Usages, Volume 2

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Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, Brown, and Green, 1824

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Page 25 - My father's spirit in arms ! all is not well; I doubt some foul play: 'would, the night were come! Till then sit still, my soul: Foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes.
Page 152 - The night has been unruly : where we lay, Our chimneys were blown down ; and, as they say, Lamentings heard i...
Page 32 - gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long : And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad; The nights are wholesome ; then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.
Page 24 - What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord, Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff That beetles o'er his base into the sea, And there assume some other horrible form, Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason And draw you into madness...
Page 312 - 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 106 - Kent. Alas, sir, are you here? Things that love night Love not such nights as these; the wrathful skies Gallow the very wanderers of the dark, And make them keep their caves; since I was man, Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder, Such groans of roaring wind and rain I never Remember to have heard: man's nature cannot carry Th
Page 47 - Fie, fie upon her! There's language in her eye, her cheek, her lip, Nay, her foot speaks ; her wanton spirits look out At every joint and motive of her body.
Page 152 - Tis unnatural, Even like the deed that's done. On Tuesday last A falcon towering in her pride of place Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd.
Page 232 - I found you as a morsel cold upon Dead Caesar's trencher. Nay, you were a fragment Of Cneius Pompey's...
Page 180 - For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires: The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.

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