Shakespeare and the Rival Poet: Displaying Shakespeare as a Satirist and Proving the Identity of the Patron and the Rival of the Sonnets

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John Lane, 1903 - 360 pages
 

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Page 57 - Nor the prophetic soul Of the wide world dreaming on things to come." Compare this with Sonnet 106: " So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring." Sonnet 107 continues: " Can yet the lease of my true love control, Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.
Page 33 - entombed in men's eyes shall lie. Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read; And tongues to be your being shall rehearse, When all the breathers of this world are dead: You still shall live—such virtue hath my pen— Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.
Page 92 - ^Eschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles to us; Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova, dead, To life again, to hear thy buskin tread And shake a stage: or, when thy socks were on, Leave thee alone, for the comparison Of all that insolent Greece, or haughty Rome, Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Page 130 - Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime." SONNET 4. " Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy ? " SONNET 5. " Those hours that with gentle work did frame The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell." SONNET 6.
Page 81 - King. Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, Live register'd upon our brazen tombs, And then grace us in the disgrace of death: When, spite of cormorant devouring Time, The endeavour of this present breath may buy That honour which shall bate his scythe's keen edge,
Page 29 - To thee I send this written ambassage, To witness duty, not to show my wit: Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, But that I hope some good conceit of thine In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it.
Page 105 - of poesy, caret. Ovidius Naso was the man: and why, indeed, Naso, but for smelling out the odoriferous flowers of fancy, the jerks of invention? Imitari is nothing: so doth the hound his master, the ape his keeper, the tired horse his rider.
Page 32 - O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought: ' Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, A dearer birth than this his love had brought, To march in ranks of better equipage: But since he died, and poets better prove, Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
Page 51 - What's in the brain that ink may character Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit ? What's new to speak, what new to register, That may express my love, or thy dear merit? Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine, Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine.

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