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Æmil againſt Author bear beauty blood Caffio comes dead dear death Deſdemona doth earth Enter Exeunt Exit eyes fair fall father fear firſt follow foul give gone Hamlet hand hath head hear heart heav'n Henry himſelf hold honour I'll Iago Juliet keep King lady Laer lago leave letter light live look Lord married matter means mind Moor moſt mother muſt myſelf nature never night noble Nurſe once Othello play Poet poor pray Printed Queen reaſon Romeo ſay SCENE ſee ſeems ſenſe ſhall ſhe ſhould ſome ſoul ſpeak ſtand ſuch ſweet tell thee theſe thing thoſe thou thought true uſe villain whoſe wife young
241. oldal - tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now ; if it be not now, yet it will come : the readiness is all : Since no man, of aught he leaves, knows, what is't to leave betimes ?
133. oldal - I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul ; freeze thy young blood ; Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres...
187. oldal - Tis now the very witching time of night When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood, And do such bitter business as the day Would quake to look on.
195. oldal - Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed, And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes? You cannot call it love, for at your age The hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble, And waits upon the judgment; and what judgment Would step from this to this?
229. oldal - I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come ; make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing. Hor. What's that, my lord? Ham. Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this fashion i
170. oldal - As made the things more rich; their perfume lost, Take these again; for to the noble mind Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
271. oldal - Their dearest action in the tented field, And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to feats of broil and battle, And therefore little shall I grace my cause In speaking for myself.
41. oldal - Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone: And yet no further than a wanton's bird; Who lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty.