Sejanus his fall ; Volpone: or, The fox ; Epiccene: or, The silent woman

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Bickers and Son, 1875
 

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Pāgina 248 - Tis with us perpetual night. Why should we defer our joys? Fame and rumour are but toys. Cannot we delude the eyes Of a few poor household spies? Or his easier ears beguile, Thus removed by our wile? Tis no sin love's fruits to steal-, But the sweet thefts to reveal: To be taken, to be seen, These have crimes accounted been.
Pāgina 338 - Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast ; Still to be powdered, still perfumed : Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace : Robes loosely flowing, hair as free : Such sweet neglect more taketh me, Than all the adulteries of art ; They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
Pāgina 518 - He shall subdue the people under us, and the nations under our feet. 4 He shall choose out an heritage for us, even the worship of Jacob, whom he loved. 5 God is gone up with a merry noise, and the Lord with the sound of the trump.
Pāgina 193 - Puh ! nor your diamond. What a needless care Is this afflicts you ? Is not all here yours ? Am not I here, whom you have made your creature ? That owe my being to you ? Corv.
Pāgina 248 - Come, my Celia, let us prove, While we can, the sports of love. Time will not be ours for ever, He, at length, our good will sever; Spend not then his gifts in vain. Suns that set may rise again: But if once we lose this light, 'Tis with us perpetual night.
Pāgina 214 - ... on so mean, yet not altogether to be despised, an object. Here is a powder concealed in this paper, of which, if I should speak to the worth, nine thousand volumes were but as one page, that page as a line, that line as a word; so short is this pilgrimage of man, which some call life, to the expressing of it.
Pāgina 167 - Such are thy beauties and our loves ! Dear saint, Riches, the dumb god, that giv'st all men tongues, That canst do nought, and yet mak'st men do all things ; The price of souls ; even hell, with thee to boot, Is made worth heaven. Thou art virtue, fame, Honour, and all things else. Who can get thee, He shall be noble, valiant, honest, wise Mos.
Pāgina 294 - twill help To set up a young man. Good faith, you look As you were costive ; best go home and purge, sir. [Exit VOLTORE. Volp. [comes from behind the curtain.} Bid him eat lettuce well. My witty mischief, Let me embrace thee. O that I could now Transform thee to a Venus ! — Mosca, go, Straight take my habit of clarissimo, And walk the streets ; be seen, torment them more : We must pursue, as well as plot.
Pāgina 310 - To make a snare for mine own neck! and run My head into it, wilfully! with laughter! When I had newly scaped, was free and clear, Out of mere wantonness!
Pāgina 186 - tis your right, your own ; no man Can claim a part ; 'tis yours without a rival, Decreed by destiny. Corb. How? how? good Mosca!

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