The dramatic works of William Shakspeare. Whittingham's ed, Հատոր 5 |
From inside the book
Արդյունքներ 85–ի 1-ից 5-ը:
Էջ 6
... Poor Clifford ! how I scorn his worthless threats ! York . Will you , we show our title to the crown ? If not , our swords shall plead it in the field . K. Hen . What title hast thou , traitor , to the crown ? Thy father was , as thou ...
... Poor Clifford ! how I scorn his worthless threats ! York . Will you , we show our title to the crown ? If not , our swords shall plead it in the field . K. Hen . What title hast thou , traitor , to the crown ? Thy father was , as thou ...
Էջ 10
... . K. Hen . Poor queen ! how love to me , and to her son , Hath made her break out into terms of rage ! Reveng'd may she be on that hateful duke ; Whose haughty spirit , winged with desire , Will cost 10 ACT 1 . THIRD PART OF.
... . K. Hen . Poor queen ! how love to me , and to her son , Hath made her break out into terms of rage ! Reveng'd may she be on that hateful duke ; Whose haughty spirit , winged with desire , Will cost 10 ACT 1 . THIRD PART OF.
Էջ 14
... poor boy ; my father's blood Hath stopp'd the passage where thy words should enter . Rut . Then let my father's blood open it again ; He is a man , and , Clifford , cope with him . Cliff . Had I thy brethren here , their lives , and ...
... poor boy ; my father's blood Hath stopp'd the passage where thy words should enter . Rut . Then let my father's blood open it again ; He is a man , and , Clifford , cope with him . Cliff . Had I thy brethren here , their lives , and ...
Էջ 17
... poor York ! but that I hate thee deadly , I should lament thy miserable state . I pr'ythee , grieve , to make me merry , York : Stamp , rave , and fret , that I may sing and dance . What , hath thy fiery heart so parch'd thine entrails ...
... poor York ! but that I hate thee deadly , I should lament thy miserable state . I pr'ythee , grieve , to make me merry , York : Stamp , rave , and fret , that I may sing and dance . What , hath thy fiery heart so parch'd thine entrails ...
Էջ 18
... poor monarch taught thee to insult ? It needs not , nor it boots thee not , proud queen ; Unless the adage must be verified , - That beggars , mounted , run their horse to death . " Tis beauty , that doth oft make women proud ; But ...
... poor monarch taught thee to insult ? It needs not , nor it boots thee not , proud queen ; Unless the adage must be verified , - That beggars , mounted , run their horse to death . " Tis beauty , that doth oft make women proud ; But ...
Common terms and phrases
Achilles Agam Agamemnon Ajax Alcib Alcibiades Anne Apem Apemantus bear blood brother Buck Buckingham Calchas cardinal Catesby Cham Clar Clarence Clifford Cres Cressid crown death Diomed dost doth Duch duke duke of York Edward Eliz Enter Exeunt Exit eyes fair Farewell father fear Flav fool fortune friends Gent gentle give Gloster gods grace hand hath hear heart heaven Hect Hector Henry honour house of Lancaster i'the Kath king lady live look Lord Chamberlain lord Hastings lord Timon lordship Lucullus madam Menelaus Murd ne'er never noble o'the Pandarus Patr Patroclus peace pity Poet pr'ythee pray Priam prince queen Rich Richard SCENE Serv Servant soul speak Surry sweet sword tell thee Ther There's Thersites thine thou art thou hast thyself Troilus Trojan Troy Ulyss unto Warwick York
Սիրված հատվածներ
Էջ 17 - Take but degree away, untune that string, And hark, what discord follows ! each thing meets In mere oppugnancy : the bounded waters Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores, And make a sop of all this solid globe...
Էջ 33 - God! methinks, it were a happy life, To be no better than a homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run: How many make the hour full complete, How many hours bring about the day, How many days will finish up the year, How many years a mortal man may live.
Էջ 56 - O'errun and trampled on : then what they do in present, Though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours ; For time is like a fashionable host That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand, And with his arms outstretch'd, as he would fly, Grasps-in the comer : welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes out sighing.
Էջ 63 - Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 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...
Էջ 7 - Thus much of this will make black white, foul fair, Wrong right, base noble, old young, coward valiant. Ha, you gods! why this? what this, you gods? Why, this Will lug your priests and servants from your sides, Pluck stout men's pillows from below their heads: This yellow slave Will knit and break religions; bless the accurs'd; Make the hoar leprosy ador'd; place thieves, And give them title, knee, and approbation, With senators on the bench...
Էջ 16 - Corrects the ill aspects of planets evil, And posts, like the commandment of a king, Sans check, to good and bad : but when the planets, In evil mixture, to disorder wander, What plagues and what portents! what mutiny! What raging of the...
Էջ 73 - Fie, fie upon her ! There's language in her eye, her cheek, her lip, Nay, her foot speaks ; her wanton spirits look out At every joint and motive of her body.
Էջ 59 - Nay then, farewell ! I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness : And, from that full meridian of my glory, I haste now to my setting. I shall fall Like a bright exhalation in the evening, And no man see me more.
Էջ 101 - My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree; Murder, stern murder in the dir'st degree; All several sins, all us'd in each degree, Throng to the bar, crying all, 'Guilty, guilty!
Էջ 28 - Come not to me again : but say to Athens, Timon hath made his everlasting mansion Upon the beached verge of the salt flood ; Which once a day with his embossed froth The turbulent surge shall cover ; thither come, And let my grave-stone be your oracle.