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Pagina 28 - All things in common nature should produce Without sweat or endeavour : treason, felony, Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine, Would I not have ; but nature should bring forth, Of its own kind, all foison, all abundance, To feed my innocent people.
Pagina 270 - tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What's to come is still unsure : In delay there lies no plenty, Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure. Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight. Sir To. A contagious breath. Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, i
Pagina 17 - em. Caliban. I must eat my dinner. This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother, Which thou tak'st from me. When thou earnest first, Thou strok'dst me and mad'st much of me, wouldst give me Water with berries in't, and teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night : and then I lov'd thee, And show'd thee all the qualities o' th' isle, The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile.
Pagina 328 - Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate, For the rain it raineth every day. But when I came, alas ! to wive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, By swaggering could I never thrive, For the rain it raineth every day...
Pagina 372 - Ay, but to die, and go we know not where ; To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot ; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod ; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside In thrilling...
Pagina 27 - I' the commonwealth I would by contraries Execute all things ; for no kind of traffic Would I admit ; no name of magistrate ; Letters should not be known : riches, poverty, And use of service, none ; contract, succession, Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none : No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil : No occupation ; all men idle, all ; And women too ; but innocent and pure : No sovereignty : — Seb.
Pagina 277 - Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid ; Fly away, fly away, breath ; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it ! My part of death, no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown ; Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown : A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O, where Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there ! Duke.