« ПретходнаНастави »
Mine honour is my life; both grow in one;
Life every man holds dear; but the dear man
As I weigh grief, which I would spare: for honour, 'Tis a derivative from me to mine,
And only that I stand for.
Rightly to be great,
Is, not to stir without great argument;
But greatly to find quarrel in a straw,
By heaven, methinks, it were an easy leap,
Where fathom-line could never touch the ground,
Honour, but of danger wins a scar,
As oft it loses all.
By Jove I am not covetous of gold,
Nor care I, who doth feed upon my cost;
For Brutus is an honourable man,
In his youth
What is that you would impart to me?
The king has cur'd me,
I humbly thank his grace and from these shoulders,
A load would sink a navy, too much honour:
True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings, Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings. The miserable hath no other medicine,
But only hope.
Hope is a lover's staff; walk hence with that,
The ample proposition, that hope makes
A cause on foot
Lives so in hope, as in an early spring
We see the appearing buds; which, to prove fruit, Hope gives not so much warrant, as despair,
That frosts will bite them.
There is a credence in
An esperance so obstinately strong
That doth invert the attest of eyes and ears;
Even here I will put off my hope, and keep it
I will despair, and be at enmity
I saw young Harry with his beaver on,
And witch the world with noble horsemanship.
My master is of churlish disposition,
I charge thee, invite them all: let in the tide
My royal lord,
You do not give the cheer: the feast is sold,
That is not often vouch'd, while 'tis a making,
'Tis given with welcome: To feed, were best at home; From thence, the sauce to meat is ceremony;
Meeting were bare without it.
Now, good digestion wait on appetite;
And health on both.
Yet so much is my poverty of spirit,
I will not do 't:
Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth,
You shall mark
Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave,
That, doting on his own obsequious bondage,
Whip me such honest knaves.
Her voice was ever soft,
Gentle, and low; an excellent thing in woman.
Signor Anthonio, many a time, and oft
Often to our comfort, shall we find
The sharded beetle in a safer hold
Come, shall we go and kill us venison ?
Being native burghers of this desert city,
Should, in their own confines, with forked heads
The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans,
But, up to the mountains;
And we will fear no poison, which attends
O, this life
Is nobler, than attending for a check;
Richer, than doing nothing for a babe;
Wilt thou hunt?
Thy hounds will make the welkin answer them,
We will, fair queen, up to the mountain's top,
Of hounds and echo in conjunction.
To-morrow, an it please your majesty,
To hunt the panther and the hart with me,
My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,