Much ado about nothing. The marchant of Venice. Love's labour lost. As you like it. Taming the shrew
J. and P. Knapton, S. Birt, T. Longman and T. Shewell, H. Lintott, C. Hitch, J. Brindley, J. and R. Tonson and S. Draper, R. Wellington, E. New, and B. Dod., 1747
Què en diuen els usuaris - Escriviu una ressenya
No hem trobat cap ressenya als llocs habituals.
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Pàgina 324 - Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, And after one hour more 'twill be eleven ; And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot ; And thereby hangs a tale.
Pàgina 476 - Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee, And for thy maintenance commits his body To painful labour both by sea and land...
Pàgina 65 - Of every hearer; for it so falls out, That what we have we prize not to the worth, Whiles we enjoy it; but being lack'd and lost, Why, then we rack the value; then we find The virtue, that possession would not show us, Whiles it was ours...
Pàgina 246 - But love, first learned in a lady's eyes, Lives not alone immured in the brain; But with the motion of all elements, Courses as swift as thought in every power; And gives to every power a double power, Above their functions and their offices.
Pàgina 318 - Ay, now am I in Arden ; the more fool I : when I was at home, I was in a better place : but travellers must be content.
Pàgina 312 - 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.
Pàgina 207 - 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...
Pàgina 285 - A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it...
Pàgina 167 - I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er, On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart: If this will not suffice, it must appear That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you, Wrest once the law to your authority: To do a great right, do a little wrong, And curb this cruel devil of his will.