The Spirit of the Plays of Shakspeare: Exhibited in a Series of Outline Plates Illustrative of the Story of Each Play, Volume 4

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T. Cadell, 1831
 

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Page 202 - If thou and nature can so gently part, The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, Which hurts and is desir'd.
Page 194 - So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes, And made their bends adornings': at the helm A seeming mermaid steers ; the silken tackle Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands, That yarely frame the office. From the barge A strange invisible perfume hits the sense Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast Her people out upon her ; and Antony, Enthron'd in the market-place, did sit alone, Whistling to the air ; which, but for vacancy, Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, And made a gap in nature.
Page 194 - Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes, And made their bends adornings: at the helm A seeming mermaid steers: the silken tackle Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands, That yarely frame the office. From the barge A strange invisible perfume hits the sense Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast Her people out upon her; and Antony, Enthroned i...
Page 169 - Let's kill him boldly, but not wrathfully; Let's carve him as a dish fit for the gods, Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds...
Page 243 - tis slander ; Whose edge is sharper than the sword ; whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile ; whose breath Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie All corners of the world : kings, queens, and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave This viperous slander enters.
Page 194 - Purple the sails, and so perfumed that The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver, Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made The water which "they beat to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, It...
Page 140 - Cut me to pieces, Volsces ; men and lads, Stain all your edges on me. — Boy ! False hound 1 If you have writ your annals true, 'tis there, That, like an eagle in a dove-cote, I Flutter'd your Volscians in Corioli : Alone I did it— Boy ! Auf.
Page 202 - Come, thou mortal wretch, [To the asp, which she applies to her breast. With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate Of life at once untie; poor venomous fool, Be angry, and dispatch.

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