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Act iv affection Arte of English beginning better blade blood Book Canto Chap common Cross death deeds described Disabler doth double English Poesie eyes face Faerie Queene fault favour fear figure fire fool force foul give grace hands hath hear Henry himselfe honour iteration Justices kill kind king lady Latines leave lesse live look lord Love's Labour's Lost matter mean Moth nature never night oath passages Peace person play present pretty prince probably Puttenham Richard Rosalind sake seeme sence servant Shakespeare sometimes sort soul sound speak speech swear sweet sword tall fellow termes thee thing thou thou art thy hands Troilus true trust truth turned unto verse wind wise word young
9. oldal - This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune, often the surfeit of our own behaviour, we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars...
25. oldal - If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber'd here, While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend : If you pardon, we will mend.
63. oldal - Upon the king ! let us our lives, our souls, Our debts, our careful wives, our children, and Our sins, lay on the king !—we must bear all.
62. oldal - Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no. 'Tis insensible, then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? no. Why? detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I'll none of it. Honour is a mere scutcheon: and so ends my catechism.
61. oldal - tis no matter; Honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on, how then ? Can honour set to a leg ? No. Or an arm ? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then ? No. What is honour? A word. What is in that word, honour ? What is that honour ? Air. A trim reckoning ! — Who hath it ? He that died o
34. oldal - From women's eyes this doctrine I derive: They sparkle still the right Promethean fire ; They are the books, the arts, the academes, That show, contain, and nourish all the world...
62. oldal - Through tatter'd clothes small vices do appear; Robes and furr'd gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold, And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks: Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it.
20. oldal - Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath ; I am slain by a fair cruel maid.