Dramatic Works of John Ford, Volume 1

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J. Murray, 1831 - English drama
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Page 152 - Pen. Not yet, heaven, I do beseech thee ! first let some wild fires Scorch, not consume it ! may the heat be cherish'd With desires infinite, but hopes impossible.
Page 196 - twas my father's last bequest. [Places a ring on the finger of Ithocles. Thus I new-marry him, whose wife I am ; Death shall not separate us. Oh, my lords, I but deceived your eyes with antic gesture, When one news straight came huddling on another, Of death ! and death ! and death ! still I danced forward : But it struck home, and here, and in an instant. Be such mere...
Page 187 - O, no more, no more, too late Sighs are spent ; the burning tapers Of a life as chaste as fate, Pure as are unwritten papers, Are burnt out : no heat, no light Now remains ; 'tis ever night. Love is dead ; let lovers...
Page 316 - From the base beadle's whip, crown'd all thy hopes : But, sirrah, ran there in thy veins one drop Of such a royal blood as flows in mine, Thou wouldst not change condition, to be second In England's state, without the crown itself. Coarse creatures are incapable of excellence : But let the world, as all to whom I am This day a spectacle, to time deliver, And by tradition fix posterity Without another chronicle than truth, How constantly my resolution suffer'd A martyrdom of majesty.
Page 323 - Books that you may carry to the fire, and hold readily in your hand, are the most useful after all. A man will often look at them, and be tempted to go on, when he would have been frightened at books of a larger size, and of a more erudite appearance.
Page 167 - Glories Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams, And shadows soon decaying. On the stage Of my mortality, my youth hath acted Some scenes of vanity, drawn out at length By varied pleasures, sweeten'd in the mixture, But tragical in issue.
Page 182 - tis a fine deceit To pass away in a dream! indeed, I've slept With mine eyes open a great while. No falsehood Equals a broken faith ; there's not a hair Sticks on my head but, like a leaden plummet, It sinks me to the grave : I must creep thither ; The journey is not long.
Page 181 - Sure, if we were all sirens, we should sing pitifully, And 'twere a comely music, when in parts One sung another's knell; the turtle sighs When he hath lost his mate ; and yet some say He must be dead first...
Page 198 - I do not know where to find, in any play, a catastrophe so grand, so solemn, and so surprising as in this. This is, indeed, according to Milton, to describe high passions and high actions. The fortitude of the Spartan boy, who let a beast gnaw out his bowels till he died without expressing a groan, is a faint bodily image of this dilaceration of the spirit and exenteration of the inmost mind, which...
Page 307 - I expect No less, than what severity calls justice, And politicians safety ; let such beg As feed on alms : but, if there can be mercy In a protested enemy, then may it Descend to these poor creatures, whose engagements, To th...

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