A Select Collection of Old Plays: George A Greene, the pinner of Wakefield; The first part of Jeronymo; The Spanish tragedy; The honest whore, pt. I-II

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Septimus Prowett, 23, Old Bond Street., 1825
 

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141. oldal - t is here hard by behind the house; There take thy stand, and see thou strike him sure, For die he must, if we do mean to live.
148. oldal - I must go to Pedringano, and tell him his pardon is in this box ; nay, I would have sworn it, had I not seen the contrary. — I cannot choose but smile to think how the villain will flout the gallows, scorn the audience, and descant on the hangman, and all presuming of his pardon from hence.
172. oldal - Closely and safely fitting things to time. But in extremes advantage hath no time : And therefore all times fit not for revenge. Thus therefore will I rest me in unrest, Dissembling quiet in unquietness...
321. oldal - tis the soul of peace : Of all the virtues, 'tis nearest kin to heaven ; It makes men look like gods. — The best of men That e'er wore earth about him, was a sufferer, A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit, The first true gentleman that ever breathed.
159. oldal - Where the nibbling flocks do stray; Mountains, on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest; Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide; Towers and battlements it sees Bosomed high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighbouring eyes.
172. oldal - Strike, and strike home, where wrong is offered thee; For evils unto ills conductors be, And death's the worst of resolution. For he that thinks with patience to contend To quiet life, his life shall easily end.
175. oldal - Come on, old father, be my Orpheus, And if thou canst no notes upon the harp, Then sound the burden of thy sore heart's grief, Till we do gain that Proserpine may grant Revenge on them that murdered my son.
283. oldal - False colours last after the true be dead. Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks, Of all the graces dancing in her eyes, Of all the music set upon her tongue, Of all that was past woman's excellence In her white bosom ; look, a painted board Circumscribes all ! DEKKER.
153. oldal - Was this the ransom he reserv'd thee for? Woe to the cause of these constrained wars! Woe to thy baseness and captivity, Woe to thy birth, thy body, and thy soul, Thy cursed father, and thy conquer'd self!
182. oldal - I'll meet him face to face, to tell me so! These be the scandalous reports of such As love not me, and hate my lord too much. Should I suspect Lorenzo would prevent Or cross my suit, that loved my son so well?

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