The Works of John Webster: With Some Account of the Author, and NotesRoutledge, Warne, and Routledge, 1859 - 383 頁 |
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bear Bell better Bird BIRDLIME blood Brach Card cause Claud comes Comp copies court dead death devil Doll doth Duch duchess duke Enter excellent Exeunt Exit eyes face fair fall father fear Ferd Flam follow fool Fran gentlemen give Green hand hath head hear heart heaven hold honest Honey honour hope husband I'll i'the John keep lady leave Less light live London look lord marry Master mean Mist mistress never night noble Pietro play poor pray present princes Scene Serv soul speak stand strange sure sweet tell thee there's thing thou thought true unto Virginius Wafer Webster wife woman Wood Wyatt young
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第 77 頁 - Mongst quiet kindred that had nothing left By their dead parents : ' Stay,' quoth Reputation, ' Do not forsake me ; for it is 'my nature, If once I part from any man I meet, I am never found again.
第 88 頁 - Most ambitiously. Princes' images on their tombs do not lie, as they were wont, seeming to pray up to heaven; but with their hands under their cheeks, as if they died of the toothache...
第 65 頁 - Are forc'd to express our violent passions In riddles and in dreams, and leave the path Of simple virtue, which was never made To seem the thing it is not. Go, go brag You have left me heartless; mine is in your bosom: I hope 'twill multiply love there. You do tremble: Make not your heart so dead a piece of flesh, To fear more than to love me.
第 67 頁 - Though we are eaten up of lice and worms, And though continually we bear about us A rotten and dead body, we delight To hide it in rich tissue...
第 86 頁 - But hold some two days' conference with the dead ! From them I should learn somewhat, I am sure, I never shall know here. I'll tell thee a miracle ; I am not mad...
第 50 頁 - My soul, like to a ship in a black storm, \ Is driven, I know not whither.
第 61 頁 - Then the law to him Is like a foul black cobweb to a spider, — He makes it his dwelling and a prison To entangle those shall feed him.
第 98 頁 - Ant. Echo, I will not talk with thee, For thou art a dead thing. Echo. Thou art a dead thing.
第 49 頁 - I am too true a woman ! Conceit can never kill me. I'll tell thee what, I will not in my death shed one base tear ; Or if look pale, for want of blood, not fear.