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279. oldal - I'll leave you till night: you are welcome to Elsinore. Ros. Good my lord ! [Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Ham. Ay, so, God be wi' you : — Now I am alone. O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I ! Is it not monstrous, that this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul so to his own conceit...
155. oldal - I have almost forgot the taste of fears : The time has been, my senses would have cool'd To hear a night-shriek ; and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir As life were in't : I have supp'd full with horrors ; Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, Cannot once start me.
262. oldal - WHEN gathering clouds around I view, And days are dark, and friends are few, On Him I lean, who, not in vain, Experienced every human pain ; He sees my wants, allays my fears, And counts and treasures up my tears.
247. oldal - ... who hath had three suits to his back, six shirts to his body, horse to ride, and weapon to wear ; But mice and rats, and such small deer,* Have been Tom's food for seven long year.
170. oldal - Like a stately ship Of Tarsus, bound for the isles Of Javan or Gadire, With all her bravery on, and tackle trim, Sails filled, and streamers waving, Courted by all the winds that hold them play, An amber scent of odorous perfume Her harbinger, a damsel train behind.
79. oldal - Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing A flowery band to bind us to the earth, Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits.
263. oldal - Base envy withers at another's joy, And hates that excellence it cannot reach.
330. oldal - Remember all who love thee, All who are loved by thee ; Pray, too, for those who hate thee, If any such there be ; Then for thyself, in meekness, A blessing humbly claim, And link with each petition Thy great Redeemer's name.
403. oldal - Ah ! let not Censure term our fate our choice, The stage but echoes back the public voice ; The drama's laws, the drama's patrons give, For we that live to please, must please to live.
256. oldal - Soul of the age! The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further, to make thee a room: Thou art a monument without a tomb, And art alive still while thy book doth live And we have wits to read and praise to give.