DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.48955#0098
92 FIGURES. Ch. XX.
Othello. No , my heart is turn’d to Hone, I ssrike it,
and it hurts my hand. Othello , aS 4. fc. g.
Not less , even in this despicable now,
Tuan when my name fill’d Afric with assrights,
And froze your hearts beneath your torrid zone.
Don Sebajlian King of Portugal, aS 1.
How long a space , since first I lov’d it is !
To look into a glass I fear.
And am surpns’d with wonder, when I miss
Grey hairs and wrinkles there.
Cowley, vol. 1. p. 86.
I chose the ssourissnng’sl tree in all the park.
With frestiest boughs, and fairest head;
I cut my love into his gentle bark ,
And in three days behold ’tis dead ;
My very written ssames so violent be.
They’ve burnt and wither’d up the tree.
Cowley, vol. 1. p. 136,
Ah, mighty Love , that it were inward heat.
Which made this precious limbeck 1'weat!
But what, alas! ah what does it avail.
That Are weeps tears so wond rous cold ,
As scarce the ass’s hoof can hold.
So cold , that 1 admire they fall not hail.
Cowley, vol. j. p. i3s.
Such a play of words is pleasanc in a ludicrous
poem.
Almeria. O Alphonso, Alphonso!
Devouring seas have wasfl’d thee from my sight.
Othello. No , my heart is turn’d to Hone, I ssrike it,
and it hurts my hand. Othello , aS 4. fc. g.
Not less , even in this despicable now,
Tuan when my name fill’d Afric with assrights,
And froze your hearts beneath your torrid zone.
Don Sebajlian King of Portugal, aS 1.
How long a space , since first I lov’d it is !
To look into a glass I fear.
And am surpns’d with wonder, when I miss
Grey hairs and wrinkles there.
Cowley, vol. 1. p. 86.
I chose the ssourissnng’sl tree in all the park.
With frestiest boughs, and fairest head;
I cut my love into his gentle bark ,
And in three days behold ’tis dead ;
My very written ssames so violent be.
They’ve burnt and wither’d up the tree.
Cowley, vol. 1. p. 136,
Ah, mighty Love , that it were inward heat.
Which made this precious limbeck 1'weat!
But what, alas! ah what does it avail.
That Are weeps tears so wond rous cold ,
As scarce the ass’s hoof can hold.
So cold , that 1 admire they fall not hail.
Cowley, vol. j. p. i3s.
Such a play of words is pleasanc in a ludicrous
poem.
Almeria. O Alphonso, Alphonso!
Devouring seas have wasfl’d thee from my sight.