طبعات أخرى - عرض جميع المقتطفات
ACTION aloud altar Antony ARIEL Prospero Arthur Farwell audience Brutus CALIBAN Caligula calls centre choirs Choregus Chorus civic Cleopatra cloak cloth CLOUDY CURTAINS CLOSE color Comedy COMMUNITY ACTORS Community Masque Comprise PARTICIPANTS coöperation CRESSIDA dance dancers dark Death Doctor Faustus Don Giovanni dramatic art enter Epilogue eyes Fairies FALSTAFF Fauns Faustus festival follow gesture glow gray ground ground-circle HAMLET hands hath Hercules hither INNER SCENE SPEAKING inner stage Interlude gates Joseph Urban King laughter light lord Lust mask Master MIRANDA Mistress mocketh Muses Omphale ORLANDO pageant PANDARUS pantomime PERCY MACKAYE play populace POWERS OF SETEBOS priests of Setebos Prologue Prospero rises Robert Edmond Jones Roman Romeo Saint Louis SCENE SPEAKING PERSONS scroll Setebos Shakespeare Shakespeare Celebration Shepherd shrine Silenus sing Sophocles Sphinx SPIRITS OF ARIEL Stadium Sycorax theatre thee theme thine thou shalt throne Troilus trumpets voices Yellow Sands York production
الصفحة 146 - Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits, and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on ; and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.
الصفحة 41 - Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes, And made their bends adornings : at the helm A seeming mermaid steers : the silken tackle Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands, That yarely frame the office. From the barge A strange invisible perfume hits the sense Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast Her people out upon her ; and Antony, Enthroned i...
الصفحة 138 - And you, good yeomen, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding— which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot: Follow your spirit; and upon this charge Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!
الصفحة 66 - How ill this taper burns ! Ha ! who comes here ? I think it is the weakness of mine eyes That shapes this monstrous apparition. It comes upon me. Art thou any thing ? Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil, That mak'st my blood cold and my hair to stare ? Speak to me what thou art.
الصفحة 102 - How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears ; soft stillness, and the night, Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica : Look, how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines' of bright gold; There's not the smallest orb, which thou behold'st, But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-ey'd cherubins : Such harmony is in immortal souls ; But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close...
الصفحة 137 - Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more ; Or close the wall up with our English dead ! In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility : But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger...
الصفحة 118 - I thought that all things had been savage here ; And therefore put I on the countenance Of stern commandment. But whate'er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time ; If ever you have look'd on better days, If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church.
الصفحة 111 - Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo, jug-jug., pu-we^ to-witta-woo!
الصفحة 41 - ... on the water. The poop was beaten gold ; Purple the sails, and so perfumed that The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver, Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made The water which they beat to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, It beggar'd all description.