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57. oldal - Romeo; and, when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.
11. oldal - To her is only known my love, Which from the world is hidden. Go, pretty birds, and tell her so, See that your notes strain not too low, For still methinks I see her frown; Ye pretty wantons, warble. Go tune your voices' harmony And sing, I am her lover; Strain loud and sweet, that every note With sweet content may move her: And she that hath the sweetest voice, Tell her I will not change my choice: Yet still methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble.
11. oldal - Which from the world is hidden. Go, pretty birds, and tell her so; See that your notes strain not too low: For still, methinks, I see her frown ' Ye pretty wantons, warble. Go, tune your voices' harmony, And sing, I am her lover; Strain loud and sweet, that every note With sweet content may move her. And she that hath the sweetest voice, Tell her I will not change my choice ; Yet still, methinks, I see her frown Ye pretty wantons, warble.
viii. oldal - Othello's mind in his colour, — whether he did not find something extremely revolting in the courtship and wedded caresses of Othello and Desdemona, and whether the actual sight of the thing did not overweigh all that beautiful compromise which we make in reading. And the reason it should do so is obvious, — because there is just so much reality presented to our senses as to give a perception of disagreement...
iv. oldal - Society desire it to be understood that they are not answerable for any opinions or observations that may appear in the Society's publications ; the Editors of the several works being alone responsible for the same.
viii. oldal - Othello's colour in his mind. But upon the stage, when the imagination is no longer the ruling faculty, but we are left to our poor unassisted senses, I appeal to every one that has seen Othello...
11. oldal - Go, pretty birds, about her bower; Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower; Ah, me! methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble. Go, tell her through your chirping bills, As you by me are bidden, To her is only known my love, Which from the world is hidden. Go, pretty birds, and tell her so; See that your notes strain not too low, For still, methinks, I see her frown; Ye pretty wantons, warble. Go, tune your voices...
57. oldal - Phoebus' mansion : such a waggoner As Phaeton would whip you to the west, And bring in cloudy night immediately.
57. oldal - I had, — cuts my hatband, and yet it was massy goldsmith's work, cuts my brims, which, by good fortune, being thick embroidered with gold twist and spangles, disappointed the force of the blow : nevertheless, it grazed on my shoulder, takes me away six purls of an Italian cut-work band I wore, cost me three pound in the Exchange but three days before.