The Dramatic Works of William Shakspeare, Volume 4

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Harper & Bros., 1839
 

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Page 8 - O, for a muse of fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention ! A kingdom for a stage, princes to act, And monarchs to behold the swelling scene ! Then should the warlike Harry, like himself, Assume the port of Mars ; and, at his heels, Leash'd in like hounds, should famine, sword, and fire, Crouch for employment.
Page 494 - em, if thou canst : leave working. Song. Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain-tops that freeze, Bow themselves, when he did sing : To his music plants and flowers Ever sprung; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring. Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or hearing, die.
Page 39 - Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more : Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace there's nothing- so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears.
Page 536 - This royal infant, (Heaven still move about her!) Though in her cradle, yet now promises Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings, Which time shall bring to ripeness. She shall be (But few now living can behold that goodness) A pattern to all princes living with her, And all that shall succeed : Saba was never More covetous of wisdom, and fair virtue, Than this pure soul shall be...
Page 372 - As we pac'd along Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, Methought that Gloster stumbled ; and, in falling, Struck me, that thought to stay him, over-board, Into the tumbling billows of the main. O Lord ! methought what pain it was to drown ! What dreadful noise of water in mine ears ! What sights of ugly death within mine eyes ! Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks; A thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upon ; Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl. Inestimable stones, unvalu'd jewels, All...
Page 509 - This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride At length broke under me, and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye : I feel my heart new open'd. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes...

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