Macbeth

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Leach, Shewell & Sanborn, 1897 - 224 pàgines
 

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Pàgina 125 - The Thane of Fife had a wife: where is she now? What! will these hands ne'er be clean? No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting.
Pàgina 122 - Merciful heaven! What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows; Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak Whispers the o'erfraught heart, and bids it break.
Pàgina 79 - Tis unnatural, Even like the deed that's done. On Tuesday last A falcon towering in her pride of place Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd.
Pàgina 70 - Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane, You do unbend your noble strength, to think So brainsickly of things. Go get some water, And wash this filthy witness from your hand. Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there: go carry them, and smear The sleepy grooms with blood. Macb. I'll go no more: I am afraid to think what I have done Look on't again I dare not.
Pàgina 130 - Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain, And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart ? DOCTOR.
Pàgina 63 - I have given suck, and know How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me; I would, while it was smiling in my face, Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums, And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you Have done to this.
Pàgina 89 - Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night', Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day, And with thy bloody and invisible hand, Cancel, and tear to pieces, that great bond Which keeps me pale ! — Light thickens ; and the crow Makes wing to the rooky wood : Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, Whiles night's black agents to their preys do rouse.
Pàgina 53 - Cannot be ill ; cannot be good : — If ill, Why hath it given me earnest of success, Commencing in a truth ? I am thane of Cawdor : If good, why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, • Against the use of nature...
Pàgina 57 - It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way : thou wouldst be great ; Art not without ambition, but without The illness should attend it: what thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily ; wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win: thou'dst have, great Glamis, That which cries ' Thus thou must do, if thou have it; And that which rather thou dost fear to do Than wishest should be undone.
Pàgina 59 - Your face, my thane, is as a book, where men May read strange matters : — to beguile the time, Look like the time ; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue : look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it.

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