The Works of John Marston, Volume 1

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Page 71 - Who winks, and shuts his apprehension up From common sense of what men were, and are, Who would not know what men must be; let such Hurry amain from our black visag'd shows : We shall affright their eyes.
Page xv - Selden, and others: at the midst of the feast his old Mother dranke to him, and shew him a paper which she had (if the sentence had taken execution) to have mixed in the prisson among his drinke, which was full of lustie strong poison, and that she was no churle, she told, she minded first to have drunk of it herself.
Page 130 - I ha' but played a part Like to some boy that acts a tragedy, Speaks burly words and raves out passion; But when he thinks upon his infant weakness, He droops his eye. I spake more than a god, Yet am less than a man.
Page 63 - You know the stone called lapis ; the nearer it comes to the fire, the hotter it is : and the bird, which the geometricians call avis, the farther it is from the earth, the nearer it is to the heaven : and love, the nigher it is to the flame, the more remote, (there's a word, remote) the more remote it is from the frost.
Page 46 - I do, Adoring, not affecting, majesty : Whose brow is wreathed with the silver crown Of clear content: this, Lucio, is a king. And of this empire, every man's possess'd, That's worth his soul.
Page xiii - He had many quarrells with Marston, beat him, and took his pistol from him, wrote his Poetaster on him; the beginning of them were, that Marston represented him in the stage, in his youth given to venerie.
Page 127 - Fool,f that crept unto the bed, Screech'd out so loud that he brought back her soul, Call'd her again, that her bright eyes 'gan ope And...
Page 45 - Why, man, I never was a prince till now. . 'Tis not the bared pate, the bended knees, Gilt tipstaves, Tyrian purple, chairs of state, Troops of pied butterflies that flutter still In greatness...
Page xi - he was angry at being forestalled by the publication of Hall's Satires; he also accuses him of having caused an epigram to be pasted to the latter page of every Pigmalion that came to the stationers of Cambridge.
Page 250 - I wasted lamp-oil, baited my flesh, Shrunk up my veins: and still my spaniel slept. And still I held converse with Zabarell, Aquinas, Scotus, and the musty saw Of antick Donate: still my spaniel slept. Still on went I; first, an sit anima; Then, an it were mortal.

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