מה אומרים אנשים - כתיבת ביקורת
לא מצאנו ביקורות במקומות הרגילים
מהדורות אחרות - הצג הכל
againſt anſwer bear better blood bring brother changes comes Count daughter dear death doth Dromio Duke ears Enter Exeunt Exit eyes face fair faith fall father fear fellow firſt fool fortune France give gone hand hath hear heart heav'n himſelf hold honour hope hour houſe husband I'll John keep King Lady leave live look Lord loſe Madam Marry maſter mean miſtreſs moſt mother muſt nature never night peace poor pray Prince Queen reaſon ſay SCENE ſee ſeems ſhall ſhe ſhould ſome ſon ſpeak ſtand ſuch ſweet tell thee there's theſe thine thing thoſe thou thou art thought tongue true whoſe wife young
עמוד 246 - Skulking in corners ? wishing clocks more swift ? Hours, minutes ? noon, midnight ? and all eyes blind With the pin and web,' but theirs, theirs only, That would unseen be wicked ? is this nothing ? Why, then the world, and all that's in't, is nothing; The covering sky is nothing ; Bohemia nothing; My wife is nothing; nor nothing have these nothings, If this be nothing.
עמוד 376 - Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form; Then, have I reason to be fond of grief ? Fare you well: had you such a loss as I, I could give better comfort than you do.
עמוד 133 - element,' but the word is over-worn. \Exit. Vio. This fellow is wise enough to play the fool ; And to do that well craves a kind of wit : He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye.
עמוד 407 - This England never did, (nor never shall,) Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself. Now these her princes are come home again, Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them : Nought shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true.
עמוד 97 - If music be the food of love, play on ; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die. That strain again ! it had a dying fall : O ! it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour.