The plays of Shakespeare, from the text of S. Johnson, with the prefaces, notes &c. of Rowe, Pope and many other critics. 6 vols. [in 12 pt. Followed by] Shakespeare's poems, Volumen 8
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Annr aster Baynard's castle besore blood brother Buck Buckingham Catesby Clarence Clif Clifford crown curse dead death devil Dorset doth duke os York Dutch earl Enter king Exeunt Exit eyes flain fleep France gentle give Glo'ster Gloucester grace gracious Gray hand hath hear heart heav'n Henry's himsels honour Ibid Johns king Edward king Henry lady Lancaster lise live look lord Hastings Lord Stanley madam means Montague mother mysels noble Norsolk Northumberland old quarto Oxsord pity Plantagenet prince quarto Queen Rich Richard Richard III Richmond sace sall salse sarewel Scene sear searsul shalt sield Sir John Gray sirst soldiers sollow Somerset sorm sorth sortune soul speak sriends srom Stanley stay sweet tell thee Theor theresore thine thou art thy sather thysels Tower uncle unto vice Warr Warwick William Brandon words
Página 426 - Why I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun, And descant on mine own deformity. And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover To entertain these fair well-spoken days, . I am determined to prove a villain, And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Página 357 - O 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.
Página 541 - Give me another horse! bind up my wounds! Have mercy, Jesu! Soft! I did but dream. O! coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me. The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight. Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. What! do I fear myself? there's none else by Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I.
Página 358 - So many hours must I take my rest; So many hours must I contemplate; So many hours must I sport myself; So many days my ewes have been with young; So many weeks ere the poor fools will...
Página 452 - Who pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood, With that grim ferryman which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. The first that there did greet my stranger soul, Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick; Who cried aloud, ' What scourge for perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence...
Página 420 - I have no brother, I am like no brother, And this word 'love,' which greybeards call divine, Be resident in men like one another, And not in me! I am myself alone.— Clarence, beware!