The Quarterly Review, Volume 49
William Gifford, Sir John Taylor Coleridge, John Gibson Lockhart, Whitwell Elwin, William Macpherson, William Smith, Sir John Murray IV, Rowland Edmund Prothero (Baron Ernle)
John Murray, 1833
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Page 8 - THE glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things ; There is no armour against Fate ; Death lays his icy hand on kings : Sceptre and Crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Page 187 - O let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven ! Keep me in temper ; I would not be mad ! — Enter Gentleman.
Page 8 - The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; Upon Death's purple altar now See, where the victor- victim bleeds : Your heads must come To the cold tomb ; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
Page 191 - Methinks I should know you, and know this man; Yet I am doubtful; for I am mainly ignorant What place this is; and all the skill I have Remembers not these garments; nor I know not Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me; For (as I am a man) I think this lady To be my child Cordelia.
Page 188 - But I will punish home: No, I will weep no more. In such a night To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure. In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril! Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all O, that way madness lies; let me shun that; No more of that.
Page 191 - And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life: Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, And thou no breath at all ? O, thou wilt come no more, Never, never, never, never, never! — Pray you, undo this button: Thank you, sir. — Do you see this? Look on her, — look, — her lips, — Look there, look there!
Page 175 - My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, And makes as healthful music : it is not madness That I have utter'd : bring me to the test, And I the matter will re-word ; which madness Would gambol from.
Page 448 - By one so deep in love, then he, who ne'er From me shall separate• at once my lips All trembling kiss'd. The book and writer both Were love's purveyors. In its leaves that day We read no more.
Page 443 - Quando fui desto innanzi la dimane, Pianger senti' fra '1 sonno i miei figliuoli, Ch' erano meco, e dimandar del pane.
Page 180 - I have of late — but wherefore I know not — lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.