Cumberland's British Theatre: With Remarks, Biographical and Critical : Printed from the Acting Copies, as Performed at the Theatres-royal, London, Volum 11

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John Cumberland, 1826
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PÓgina 38 - Westmoreland, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall be made, And crowns for convoy put into his purse: We would not die in that man's company That fears his fellowship to die with us.
PÓgina 36 - And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practice As full of labour as a wise man's art; For folly that he wisely shows is fit; But wise men, folly-fallen, quite taint their wit.
PÓgina 8 - Hear him but reason in divinity, And, all-admiring, with an inward wish You would desire the king were made a prelate : Hear him debate of commonwealth affairs, You would say, — it hath been...
PÓgina 38 - This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered; We few, we happy few, we band of brothers...
PÓgina 5 - List his discourse of war, and you shall hear A fearful battle render'd you in music : Turn him to any cause of policy, The Gordian knot of it he will unloose, Familiar as his garter...
PÓgina 21 - Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love And sing them loud even in the dead of night; Halloo your name to the reverberate hills And make the babbling gossip of the air Cry out 'Olivia!
PÓgina 20 - A' made a finer end and went away an it had been any christom child ; a' parted even just between twelve and one, even at the turning o' the tide : for after I saw him fumble with the sheets and play with flowers and smile upon his fingers...
PÓgina 11 - If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken and so die.— That strain again;— it had a dying fall; O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour.— Enough; no more; 'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
PÓgina 29 - A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief.
PÓgina 38 - To-morrow is saint Crispian :' Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.' Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he'll remember with advantages What feats he did that day...

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