Remarks On Three Plays Of Benjamin Jonson: Viz. Volpone, Or The Fox: Epicoene, Or The Silent Woman: and The Alchimist

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G. Hawkins, 1749 - 124 pages

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Page 94 - Good morrow, fool, quoth I : No, sir, quoth he, Call me not fool, till heaven hath sent me fortune : And then he drew a dial from his poke ; And looking on it with lack-lustre eye, Says, very wisely, It is ten o'clock : Thus we may see...
Page 45 - See, a carbuncle, May put out both the eyes of our St. Mark; A diamond, would have bought Lollia Paulina, When she came in like star-light, hid with jewels...
Page 114 - Among the heathen of their purchase got, And fabled how the serpent, whom they call'd Ophion with Eurynome, the wide...
Page 45 - And wear, and lose them: yet remains an ear-ring To purchase them again, and this whole state. A gem but worth a private patrimony, Is nothing: we will...
Page 41 - Be able to discourse, to write, to paint, But principal, as Plato holds, your music, And so does wise Pythagoras, I take it, Is your true rapture : when there is concent ' In face, in voice, and clothes : and is, indeed, Our sex's chiefest ornament.
Page 4 - Good morning to the day; and next, my gold: Open the shrine, that I may see my saint.
Page 27 - Not without; Those blows were nothing : I could bear them ever. But angry Cupid,* bolting from her eyes, Hath shot himself into me like a flame; Where, now, he flings about his burning heat, As in a furnace an ambitious fire, Whose vent is stopt. The fight is all within me. I cannot live, except thou help me, Mosca; My liver melts, and I, without the hope Of some soft air, from her refreshing breath, Am but a heap of cinders.
Page 23 - tis the common fable. The dwarf, the fool, the eunuch, are all his; He's the true father of his family. In all, save me: — but he has given them nothing.
Page 10 - Euphorbus, who was killed in good fashion, At the siege of old Troy, by the cuckold of Sparta.
Page 95 - Slid, I cannot choose but laugh to see myself translated thus, from a poor creature to a creator; for now must I create an intolerable sort of lies, or my present profession loses the grace: and yet the lie, to a man of my coat, is as ominous a fruit as the fico.

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