Shakespeare's Stories of the English Kings

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G.G. Harrap, 1912 - 284 pages
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Page 194 - s he that wishes so ? My cousin Westmoreland ? No, my fair cousin : If we are mark'd to die, we are enow To do our country loss ; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. God's will ! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
Page 191 - Not all these, laid in bed majestical, Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave, Who with a body fill'd and vacant mind Gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread Never sees horrid night, the child of hell, But, like a lackey, from the rise to set Sweats in the eye of Phoebus and all night Sleeps in Elysium...
Page 178 - Creatures, that, by a rule in nature, teach The act of order to a peopled Kingdom. They have a King, and Officers of sorts : Where some, like Magistrates, correct at home ; Others, like Merchants, venture trade abroad; Others, like Soldiers, armed in their stings, Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds; Which pillage they with merry march bring home To the tent-royal of their Emperor...
Page 124 - My liege, I did deny no prisoners ; But, I remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, Came there a certain lord, neat...
Page 278 - Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me, Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes : And thus far hear me, Cromwell; And, — when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble...
Page 120 - tis no matter ; honour pricks me on. Yea. but how if honour prick me off when I come on ? how then ' Can honour set to a leg ? no : or an arm ? no : or take away the grief of a wound ? no. Honour hath no skill in surgery. then ? no. What is honour ? a word. What is that word. honour ? air. A trim reckoning ! — Who hath it ? he that died o
Page 256 - Give me another horse ! — bind up my wounds ! — Have mercy, Jesu ! — Soft ! I did but dream. — O, coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me ! — The lights burn blue. — It is now dead midnight. Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.
Page 105 - God save him ; No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home : But dust was thrown upon his sacred head ; Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off, His face still combating with tears and smiles, The badges of his grief and patience, That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd The hearts of men, they must perforce. have melted, And barbarism itself have pitied him.
Page 184 - And you, good yeomen, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture ; let us swear That you are worth your breeding ; which I doubt not ; For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
Page 102 - For within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king, Keeps death his court ; and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp...

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