The Works of Christopher Marlowe, Volume 2

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John C. Nimmo., 1885
 

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Page 233 - And, seeing there was no place to mount up higher, Why should I grieve at my declining fall? — Farewell, fair queen; weep not for MOrtimer, That scorns the world, and, as a traveller, Goes to discover countries yet unknown.
Page 48 - And kill sick people groaning under walls; Sometimes I go about and poison wells; And now and then, to cherish Christian thieves, I am content to lose some of my crowns, That I may, walking in my gallery, See 'em go pinioned along by my door.
Page 122 - I'll have Italian masks by night, Sweet speeches, comedies, and pleasing shows; And in the day, when he shall walk abroad, Like sylvan nymphs my pages shall be clad ; My men, like satyrs grazing on the lawns, Shall with their goat-feet dance...
Page 117 - The troublesome Raigne and lamentable Death of Edward the Second, King of England: with the tragicall fall of proud Mortimer.
Page 206 - But not of kings. The forest deer, being struck, Runs to an herb that closeth up the wounds ; But, when the imperial lion's flesh is gored, He rends and tears it with his wrathful paw, And highly scorning that the lowly earth Should drink his blood, mounts up into the air.
Page 208 - My head, the latest honour due to it, And jointly both yield up their wished right. Continue ever thou celestial sun; Let never silent night possess this clime: Stand still you watches...
Page 35 - Thus, like the sad presaging raven, that tolls The sick man's passport in her hollow beak, And in the shadow of the silent night Doth shake contagion from her sable wings, Vex'd and tormented runs poor Barabas With fatal curses towards these Christians.
Page 227 - Tell Isabel, the queen, I looked not thus, When for her sake I ran at tilt in France, And there unhorsed the Duke of Cleremont.
Page 121 - I must have wanton poets, pleasant wits, Musicians, that with touching of a string May draw the pliant king which way I please; Music and poetry is his delight; Therefore I'll have Italian masks by night, Sweet speeches, comedies, and pleasing shows...
Page 99 - Look, where he comes ! Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou ow'dst yesterday.

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