The Stratford gallery; . nks, already—What was he, that did make it ?—See, my lord,Would you not deem it breathd ? and that those veinsDid verily bear blood ? Pol. Masterly done ! The very life seems warm upon her lip. Leon. The fixture of her eye has motion int,As we are mockd with art. Paul. Ill draw the cm-tain ; My lords almost so far transported thatHell think anon it lives. Leon. O sweet Paulina, Make me to think so twenty years together;No settled senses of the world can matchThe pleasure of that madness. Lett alone. Paul. I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stird you; butI could afflict y

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The Stratford gallery; . nks, already—What was he, that did make it ?—See, my lord,Would you not deem it breathd ? and that those veinsDid verily bear blood ? Pol. Masterly done ! The very life seems warm upon her lip. Leon. The fixture of her eye has motion int,As we are mockd with art. Paul. Ill draw the cm-tain ; My lords almost so far transported thatHell think anon it lives. Leon. O sweet Paulina, Make me to think so twenty years together;No settled senses of the world can matchThe pleasure of that madness. Lett alone. Paul. I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stird you; butI could afflict y
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Image ID: 2AJ8X6K
The Stratford gallery; . nks, already—What was he, that did make it ?—See, my lord,Would you not deem it breathd ? and that those veinsDid verily bear blood ? Pol. Masterly done ! The very life seems warm upon her lip. Leon. The fixture of her eye has motion int,As we are mockd with art. Paul. Ill draw the cm-tain ; My lords almost so far transported thatHell think anon it lives. Leon. O sweet Paulina, Make me to think so twenty years together;No settled senses of the world can matchThe pleasure of that madness. Lett alone. Paul. I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stird you; butI could afflict you further. Leon. Do, Paulina; For this affliction has a taste as sweetAs any cordial comfort.—Still, methinks,There is an air comes from her: What fine chiselCould ever yet cut breath ? Let no man mock me—For I will kiss her. Paul. Good my lord, forbear : The ruddiness upon her lip is wet;Youll mar it, if you kiss it—stain your ownWith oily painting : Shall I draw the curtain ?Leon. No, not these twenty years.. MISTRESS FORD Misteess Alice Ford is one of the two Merry Wives ofWindsor whose mischievous pranks constitute the material forthat very amusing, hut somewhat too coarse, comedy. Sir JohnFalstaff, sojourning in Windsor, proposes to engage in certain amo-rous speculations with the wives of two well-to-do citizens, for hisown pecuniary benefit. He accordingly indites love-letters to thosejovial dames, who, being fast friends, at once inform each other ofthe audacious affront offered to their virtue, and together contrivea suitable revenge. By their excellent devices Falstaff is encour-aged in both his suits, only to be betrayed into a series of humil-iating situations, to the effect of which Master Ford, the jealousspouse of our quick-witted heroine, materially contributes by hiscounter-plotting, as well as by the punishment he receives forhis groundless suspicions of his wifes virtue. The underplot of the play is admirably sustained by the sen-timental enterpris

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