The works of Shakespear [ed. by sir T.Hanmer].
J. and P. Knapton, S. Birt, T. Longman, H. Lintott, C. Hitch, J. Hodges, J. Brindley, J. and R. Tonson and S. Draper, B. Dod, and C. Corbet, 1750
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attend bear better Bianca bring brother Cath comes Count daughter dear doth Duke Enter Exeunt Exit eyes fair faith father fear felf fellow fhall fhould fome fool fortune foul fpeak friends fuch fweet gentle give Gremio hand hath hear heart hold honour hope hour houſe I'll keep King knave Lady leave live look Lord Lucentio Madam mafter maid marry mean moft muft nature never night Orla Petruchio play pleaſe poor pray ring Rofalind SCENE Signior Sir Toby ſpeak tell thank thee there's theſe thing thou thou art thought true wife woman young youth
Page 30 - 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.
Page 145 - Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee, And for thy maintenance: commits his body To painful labour, both by sea and land; To watch the night in storms, the day in cold, While thou liest warm at home, secure and safe ; And craves no other tribute at thy hands, But love, fair looks, and true obedience;— Too little payment for so great a debt.
Page 201 - 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.
Page 21 - To-day my Lord of Amiens, and myself, Did steal behind him as he lay along Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out Upon the brook that brawls along this wood...
Page 20 - The seasons' difference ; as the icy fang, And churlish chiding of the winter's wind ; Which when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say,— This is no flattery: these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Page 253 - But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? We men may say more, swear more: but indeed Our shows are more than will; for still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love.