The Works of John Webster: With Some Account of the Author, and NotesRoutledge, Warne, and Routledge, 1859 - 383 pages |
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Common terms and phrases
Appius Ario bawd Bell Bird BIRDLIME blood Brach Brachiano Celso Clare Claud CLAUDIUS Comp Contarino court cuckold dead death Delio devil Doll dost doth Duch duchess Duchess of Malfi duke Duke of Florence Enter Exeunt Exit father fear Feath Ferd Flam FLAMINEO fool for't Fran Garrick Collection gentlemen give hast hath hear heart heaven honest Honey honour husband i'the Icil Icilius in't Jane John Webster knave lady Lessingham Lictors Linstock live look lord marry Master MAYBERRY merry Mist mistress Mont ne'er never night noble Norf Northward Ho o'the old copies Omnes Pietro play poison'd pray princes Re-enter Roch Romelio Scene second 4to soul speak strange sweet tell thee there's thing thou art troth twas twill unto Urse Virginius Vittoria Wafer wench What's wife woman Wyatt Zanche
Popular passages
Page 77 - Mongst quiet kindred that had nothing left By their dead parents : ' Stay,' quoth Reputation, ' Do not forsake me ; for it is 'my nature, If once I part from any man I meet, I am never found again.
Page 88 - Most ambitiously. Princes' images on their tombs do not lie, as they were wont, seeming to pray up to heaven; but with their hands under their cheeks, as if they died of the toothache...
Page 65 - Are forc'd to express our violent passions In riddles and in dreams, and leave the path Of simple virtue, which was never made To seem the thing it is not. Go, go brag You have left me heartless; mine is in your bosom: I hope 'twill multiply love there. You do tremble: Make not your heart so dead a piece of flesh, To fear more than to love me.
Page 67 - Though we are eaten up of lice and worms, And though continually we bear about us A rotten and dead body, we delight To hide it in rich tissue...
Page 86 - But hold some two days' conference with the dead ! From them I should learn somewhat, I am sure, I never shall know here. I'll tell thee a miracle ; I am not mad...
Page 50 - My soul, like to a ship in a black storm, \ Is driven, I know not whither.
Page 61 - Then the law to him Is like a foul black cobweb to a spider, — He makes it his dwelling and a prison To entangle those shall feed him.
Page 98 - Ant. Echo, I will not talk with thee, For thou art a dead thing. Echo. Thou art a dead thing.
Page 49 - I am too true a woman ! Conceit can never kill me. I'll tell thee what, I will not in my death shed one base tear ; Or if look pale, for want of blood, not fear.