File:Golden leaves from the British and American dramatic poets (1865) (14785954853).jpg

Identifier: goldenleavesfrom01hows (find matches)
Title: Golden leaves from the British and American dramatic poets
Year: 1865 (1860s)
Authors: Hows, John William Stanhope, 1797-1871, (from old catalog) comp
Subjects: English drama American drama
Publisher: New York, G. R. Routledge and sons
Contributing Library: The Library of Congress
Digitizing Sponsor: Sloan Foundation

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Text Appearing Before Image:
. Pis. First, make yourself but like one.Fore-thinking this, I have already fit(Tis in my cloak-bag), doublet, hat, hose, allThat answer to them: would you, in their serving.And with what imitation you can borrowFrom youth of such a season, fore noble LuciusPresent yourself, desire his service, tell himWherein you are happy (which youll make him know,If that his head have ear in music), doubtless.With joy he will embrace you; for hes honourable.And, doubling that, most holy. Your means abroadYou have me, rich; and I will never failBeginning, nor supplyment. Imo. Thou art all the comfortThe gods will diet me with. Prythee, away :Theres more to be considered; but well evenAll that good time will give us: this attemptIm soldier to, and will abide it withA princes courage. Away, I prythee. Pis. Well, madam, we must take a short farewell;Lest, being missed, I be suspected ofYour carriage from the court. . . . To some shade.And fit you to your manhood :—May the godsDirect you to the best!
Text Appearing After Image:
LADY MACBETH. SHAKSPEARE. 73 THE TEMPEST. The Dissolution of all Things. Our revels now are ended: these our actors.As I foretold you, were all spirits, andAre melted into air, into thin air:And, like the baseless fabric of this vision.The cloud-capped 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 stuffAs dreams are made of, and our little lifeIs rounded with a sleep. Prospero abjures his Magic. Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and grove?And ye, that on the sands with printless footDo chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him.When he comes back: you demi-puppets, thatBy moonshine do the green-sour ringlets make.Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pastimeIs to make midnight-mushrooms; that rejoiceTo hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid(Weak masters though you be) I have bedimmedThe noontide sun, called forth the mutinous win

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