Beaumont, the Dramatist: A Portrait, with Some Account of His Circle, Elizabethan and Jacobean, and of His Association with John Fletcher

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Century Company, 1914 - 443 pages
 

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Page 215 - Man is his own star; and the soul that can Render an honest and a perfect man, Commands all light, all influence, all fate; Nothing to him falls early or too late. Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.
Page 99 - What things have we seen Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, As if that every one (from whence they came) Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, And had resolved to live a fool the rest Of his dull life...
Page 233 - Beaumont and Fletcher, of whom I am next to speak, had, with the advantage of Shakespeare's wit, which was their precedent, great natural gifts improved by study; Beaumont especially being so accurate a judge of plays that Ben Jonson, while he lived, submitted all his writings to his censure, and, 'tis thought, used his judgment in correcting, if not contriving all his plots.
Page 99 - Methinks the little wit I had is lost Since I saw you! For wit is like a rest Held up at tennis, which men do the best With the best gamesters. What things have we seen Done at the Mermaid!
Page 200 - Soul of the age! The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further, to make thee a room: Thou art a monument without a tomb, And art alive still while thy book doth live And we have wits to read and praise to give.
Page 183 - Though gods they were, as men they died!' Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings; Here's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
Page 183 - Here's an acre sown indeed With the richest royallest seed That the earth did e'er suck in Since the first man died for sin: Here the bones of birth have cried, «Though gods they were, as men they died...
Page 216 - Man is his own star, and that soul that can Be honest, is the only perfect man.
Page 288 - Tis less than to be born ; a lasting sleep ; A quiet resting from all jealousy, A thing we all pursue. I know, besides, It is but giving over of a game That must be lost.
Page 154 - Southampton, who was then scarcely of addresses, age, as ' a dear lover and cherisher as well of the lovers of poets as of the poets themselves.

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