Shakespeare's Comedy of The Tempest

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Dent, 1894 - 117 pages

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Page 108 - Gentle breath of yours my sails Must fill, or else my project fails, Which was to please. Now I want, Spirits to enforce, art to enchant; And my ending is despair, Unless I be relieved by prayer, Which pierces so that it assaults Mercy itself, and frees all faults As you from crimes would pardon'd be Let your indulgence set me free.
Page 50 - A strange fish! Were I in England now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver. There would this monster make a man. Any strange beast there makes a man. When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian.
Page 7 - If by your art, my dearest father, you have Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them : The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch, But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek, Dashes the fire out.
Page 94 - The charm dissolves apace; And as the morning steals upon the night, Melting the darkness, so their rising senses Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle Their clearer reason.
Page 16 - Know thus far forth. — By accident most strange, bountiful fortune, Now, my dear lady, hath mine enemies Brought to this shore : and by my prescience I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star ; whose influence If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes "Will ever after droop.
Page 6 - Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground ; long heath, brown furze, any thing: The wills above be done! but I •would fain die a dry death.
Page 40 - 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.
Page 93 - I here abjure, and, when I have required Some heavenly music, which even now I do, To work mine end upon their senses that This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, And deeper than did ever plummet sound I'll drown my book.
Page 84 - You do look, my son, in a moved sort, As if you were dismay'd : be cheerful, sir : Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits, and Are melted into air, into thin air...
Page 95 - Where the bee sucks, there suck I ; In a cowslip's bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

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