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ancient appears bear beauty better called Capulet cause comes copy daughter dead death doth Duke edition editors Enter eyes face fair father fear folio fool Fortune Friar give hand hart hast hath head hear heart heaven hence hope hour Johnson Juliet King lady leave light live look lord lovers Malone married master means nature never night Nurse observed old copy once Orlando Paris passage perhaps play poor pray present prince quarto rest Romeo Romeus Rosalind scene seems sense serve Shakspeare sight speak speech stand stay Steevens sweet tears tell thee theyr thing thou thou art thought Touch true Tybalt unto young youth
Page 380 - The seasons' difference ; as, the icy fang, And churlish chiding of the winter's wind ; Which when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say, — This is no flattery : these are counsellors, That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Page 52 - Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners' legs; The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; The traces, of the smallest spider's web; The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams; Her whip, of cricket's bone ; the lash, of film ; Her waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat, Not half so big as a round little worm Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid; Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub, Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers And in this state she gallops night...
Page 66 - Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this ; For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers
Page 242 - O ! here Will I set up my everlasting rest, And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh.
Page 77 - tis not to me she speaks : Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
Page 84 - O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
Page 78 - O ! speak again, bright angel ; for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, As is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, And sails upon the bosom of the air.
Page 161 - It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east: Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops; I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Page 56 - True, I talk of dreams ; Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy ; Which is as thin of substance as the air ; And more inconstant than the wind...