Life of Francis Beaumont. Life of John Fletcher. Prefaces. Commendatory poems. Verses on an honest man's fortune. Beaumont's letter to Jonson. Last editor's preface. Maid's tragedy. Philaster. King and no king. Scornful lady. Custom of the country. Elder brother. Spanish curate. Wit without money. Beggar's bush. Humorous lieutenant. Faithful shepherdess. Mad lover. Loyal subject. Rule a wife and have a wife. Laws of candy. False one
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Page xcii - What things have we seen Done at the Mermaid ! Heard words that have been So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, As if that every one from whence they came Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest And had resolved to live a fool the rest Of his dull life...
Page 399 - His gardens next your admiration call; On every side you look, behold the wall! No pleasing intricacies intervene, No artful wildness to perplex the scene ; Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother, And half the platform just reflects the other.
Page 389 - Philomel, with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby ; Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby : Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh ; So, good night, with lullaby.
Page xxxi - Do my face (If thou had'st ever feeling of a sorrow) Thus, thus, Antiphila : strive to make me look Like Sorrow's monument ; and the trees about me, Let them be dry and leafless ; let the rocks Groan with continual surges ; and behind me, Make all a desolation.
Page xxxv - That place, that does Contain my books, the best companions, is To me a glorious court, where hourly I Converse with the old sages and philosophers ; And sometimes for variety I confer With kings and emperors, and weigh their counsels; Calling their victories, if unjustly got, Unto a strict account; and in my fancy, Deface their ill-placed statues.
Page civ - Lay a garland on my hearse, Of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow branches bear; Say I died true: My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth. Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth!
Page 378 - I sit by and sing, Or gather rushes, to make many a ring For thy long fingers; tell thee tales of love) How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove, First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes She took eternal fire that never dies; How she...
Page 54 - I' the morning with you, and at night behind you Past and forgotten ; how your vows are frosts, Fast for a night, and with the next sun gone ; How you are, being taken all together, A mere confusion, and so dead a chaos, That love cannot distinguish. These sad texts, Till my last hour, I am bound to utter of you. So, farewell all my woe, all my delight ! [Exit, Are.