The Works of Shakespeare in Twelve Volumes: Collated with the Oldest Copies and Corrected: with Notes Explanatory and Critical, Том 3R. Crowder, 1772 |
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Стр. 20
... may prove food to my difpleafure : that young fart - ups hath the glory of my overthrow ; if I can crofs . him any way , I blefs myfelf every way ; you are both fure , and will affift me . -Cent . To the death , my Lord , John 20 MUCH ADO .
... may prove food to my difpleafure : that young fart - ups hath the glory of my overthrow ; if I can crofs . him any way , I blefs myfelf every way ; you are both fure , and will affift me . -Cent . To the death , my Lord , John 20 MUCH ADO .
Стр. 21
... death , my Lord , John . Let us to the great fupper ; their cheer is the greater that I am fubdued . Would the cook were of my mind ! --- fhall we go prove what's to be done ? ! . Bora . We'll wait upon your Lordship . [ Exeunt . A CT ...
... death , my Lord , John . Let us to the great fupper ; their cheer is the greater that I am fubdued . Would the cook were of my mind ! --- fhall we go prove what's to be done ? ! . Bora . We'll wait upon your Lordship . [ Exeunt . A CT ...
Стр. 35
... death of this marriage ? Bora . The poifon of that lyes in you to temper ; go you to the Prince your brother , fpare not to tell him that he hath wronged his honour in marrying the renowned Claudio , ( whofe eftimation do you mightily ...
... death of this marriage ? Bora . The poifon of that lyes in you to temper ; go you to the Prince your brother , fpare not to tell him that he hath wronged his honour in marrying the renowned Claudio , ( whofe eftimation do you mightily ...
Стр. 48
... and lace of gold well garnished : My stately treffes covered with a net Of beaten gold , most pure and brightly varnished , & c . Out of myself , prefs me to death with wit I MUCH A DO . (13) If low, an Agat very vilely ...
... and lace of gold well garnished : My stately treffes covered with a net Of beaten gold , most pure and brightly varnished , & c . Out of myself , prefs me to death with wit I MUCH A DO . (13) If low, an Agat very vilely ...
Стр. 49
... death with wit : Therefore let Benedick , like covered fire , Confume away in fighs , waste inwardly ; It were a better death than die with mocks , Which is as bad as ' tis to die with tickling . Urfu . Yet tell her of it ; hear what ...
... death with wit : Therefore let Benedick , like covered fire , Confume away in fighs , waste inwardly ; It were a better death than die with mocks , Which is as bad as ' tis to die with tickling . Urfu . Yet tell her of it ; hear what ...
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Afide againſt Aglet anfwer Antigonus Aquitain Beat Beatrice becauſe Benedick Biron Bohemia Bora Borachio Boyet brother Camillo Claud Claudio Coft Coftard coufin daughter defire doft Dogb doth elfe Enter Exeunt Exit eyes faid fair Fair Ladies falfe father feems feen fenfe fhall fhame fhew fhould fince fing firſt fome fool foul fpeak Friar ftand fuch fure fwear fweet fworn gentleman grace hath hear heart Hermione Hero himſelf honeft honour Jaquenetta kifs King Lady lefs Leon Leonato Lord Madam mafter marry moft moſt Moth muft muſt myſelf Navarre never paffage Paul Paulina perfon pleaſe Polixenes Pompey praife praiſe pray prefent Prince Princefs Queen reafon Rofa ſhall ſhe Shep Sicilia Signior ſpeak ſtay tell thee thefe theſe thofe tongue troth whofe wife word yourſelf
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Стр. 124 - Biron they call him ; but a merrier man, Within the limit of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour's talk withal. His eye begets occasion for his wit ; For every object that the one doth catch, The other turns to a mirth-moving jest...
Стр. 281 - For you there's rosemary and rue; these keep Seeming and savour all the winter long: Grace and remembrance be to you both, And welcome to our shearing!
Стр. 229 - Why, then the world, and all that's in't, is nothing; The covering sky is nothing ; Bohemia nothing; My wife is nothing; nor nothing have these nothings, If this be nothing.
Стр. 213 - While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whit; Tu-who, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.