So many years ere I shall shear the fleece ; So minutes, hours, days, months, and years, Pass'd over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this ! how sweet ! how lovely ! Gives not the hawthorn-bush... The plays (poems) of Shakespeare, ed. by H. Staunton, the illustr. by J ... - Page 418 by William Shakespeare - 1859 Full view -
|