Stanford Studies in Language and Literature, Volumes 1-2

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Stanford University Press, 1920

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Page 209 - When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's •waste...
Page 114 - Sigh, no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever ; One foot in sea, and one on shore ; To one thing constant never : Then sigh not so, But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny ; Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny.
Page 208 - Of every hearer ; for it so falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lack'd and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us Whiles it was ours.
Page 73 - A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do Nothing but that ; move still, still so, And own no other function : each your doing, So singular in each particular, Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds, That all your acts are queens.
Page 83 - Under an oak whose antique root peeps out Upon the brook that brawls along this wood : To the which place a poor sequester'd stag, That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt, Did come to languish...
Page 51 - tis not long after But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.
Page 128 - But doth not the appetite alter? A man loves the meat in his youth, that he cannot endure in his age: Shall quips, and sentences, and these paper bullets of the brain, awe a man from the career of his humour? No: The world must be peopled. When I said, I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married.— Here comes Beatrice : By this day, she's a fair lady : I do spy some marks of love in her.
Page 247 - His glassy essence, like an angry ape, Plays such fantastic tricks before high Heaven As make the angels weep ; who, with our spleens, Would all themselves laugh mortal.
Page 17 - I remember? why, she would hang on him, As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on; and yet, within a month, Let me not think on't: Frailty, thy name is woman!
Page 247 - Merciful Heaven ! Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt Split'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak Than the soft myrtle. 0 but man, proud man ! Drest in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he's most assured, His glassy essence, like an angry ape, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, As make the angels weep.

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