The Growth of English Drama

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Clarendon Press, 1914 - English drama - 281 pages

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Page 189 - Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king ; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring : Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo...
Page 93 - I cannot eat but little meat, My stomach is not good ; But sure I think, that I can drink With him that wears a hood : Though I go bare, take ye no care ; I nothing am a-cold : I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old.
Page 130 - At cards for kisses; Cupid paid; He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, His mother's doves, and team of sparrows ; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how) ; With these, the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin. All these did my Campaspe win. At last he set her both his eyes. She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love! has she done this to thee? What shall, alas ! become of me?
Page 255 - And, seeing there was no place to mount up higher, Why should I grieve at my declining fall? — Farewell, fair queen; weep not for Mortimer, That scorns the world, and, as a traveller, Goes to discover countries yet unknown.
Page 235 - Shall I make spirits fetch me what I please, Resolve me of all ambiguities, Perform what desperate enterprise I will? I'll have them fly to India for gold, Ransack the ocean for orient pearl, And search all corners of the new-found world For pleasant fruits and princely delicates...
Page 242 - Ay, and body too: but what of that? Think'st thou that Faustus is so fond to imagine That, after this life, there is any pain? Tush, these are trifles and mere old wives
Page 228 - But if these threats move not submission. Black are his colours, black pavilion ; His spear, his shield, his horse, his armour, plumes, And jetty feathers, menace death and hell ; Without respect of sex, degree, or age, He razeth all his foes with fire and sword.
Page 238 - Her lips suck forth my soul ; see where it flies ! — Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again. Here will I dwell, for Heaven is in these lips, And all is dross that is not Helena.
Page 238 - O, thou art fairer than the evening air Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars...
Page 236 - And long ere this I should have slain myself, Had not sweet pleasure conquer'd deep despair. Have not I made blind Homer sing to me Of Alexander's love and Oenon's death? And hath not he, that built the walls of Thebes With ravishing sound of his melodious harp, Made music with my Mephistophilis?

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