Shakespeare's Comedy of Twelfth Night

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J.M. Dent, 1902 - 134 pages
 

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Page 44 - The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids, that weave their thread with bones. Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love Like the old age.
Page 119 - When that I was and a little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain; A foolish thing was but a toy, For the rain it raineth every day.
Page 47 - Too well what love women to men may owe: In faith, they are as true of heart as we. My father had a daughter loved a man, no As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, I should your lordship. Duke. And what's her history ? Vio. A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i...
Page 60 - I might say, element ; but the word is over-worn. [Exit. Via. This fellow is wise enough to play the fool ; And to do that well craves a kind of wit : He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time ; And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practice As full of labour as a wise man's art : For folly, that he wisely shows, is fit ; But wise men, folly-fallen, quite taint their wit.
Page 35 - tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure. 202 Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight. Sir To. A contagious breath. Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, i
Page 1 - That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour. Enough ! no more : 'Tis not so sweet now as it was before. O spirit of love ! how quick and fresh art thou, That, notwithstanding thy capacity Receiveth as the sea...
Page 47 - A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek : she pined in thought, And, with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like Patience on a monument, Smiling at grief.
Page 35 - O mistress mine, where are you roaming? O stay and hear; your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low. Trip no further, pretty sweeting; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know.
Page 1 - If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it ; that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die. That strain again ; — it had a dying fall : O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing, and giving odour.
Page 45 - And in sad cypress let me be laid ; Fly away, fly away, breath ; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it ! My part of death, no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown ; Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown : A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O, where Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there ! Duke.

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