Richard Brome: A Study of His Life and Works

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H. Holt, 1913 - Dramatists, English - 140 pages

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Page 102 - I'll example you with thievery; The sun's a thief, and with his great attraction Robs the vast sea: the moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun...
Page 103 - I'll sup. Farewell. POINS. Farewell, my lord. [Exit.] PRINCE. I know you all, and will awhile uphold The unyok'd humour of your idleness: Yet herein will I imitate the sun, Who doth permit the base contagious clouds To smother up his beauty from the world, That when he please again to be himself, Being wanted, he may be more wonder'd at, By breaking through the foul and ugly mists Of vapours that did seem to strangle him.
Page 31 - Pope came off clean with Homer ; but they say Broome went before, and kindly swept the way.
Page 83 - I have laboured, for their instruction and amendment, to reduce not only the ancient forms, but manners of the scene: the easiness, the propriety, the innocence, and last the doctrine, which is the principal end of poesy, to inform men in the best reason of living.
Page 15 - You shal find in this booke more then was presented upon the stage, and left out of the presentation for superfluous length, as some of the players pretended. I thought good al should be inserted according to the allowed * original, and as it was at first intended for the Cock-pit stage in the right of my most deserving friend Mr.
Page 59 - Now in the time of spruceness, our plays follow the niceness of our garments, single plots, quaint conceits, lecherous jests, dressed up in hanging sleeves, and those are fit for the times and the termers: such a kind of light-colour summer stuff, mingled with diverse colours, you shall find this published comedy...
Page 20 - He scoru'd those shifts. You, that have known him, know The common talk ; that from his lips did flow, And run at waste, did savour more of wit, Than any of his time, or since, have writ (But few excepted) in the stage's way : His scenes were acts, and every act a play.
Page 103 - Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York ; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

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