QuŔ en diuen els usuaris - Escriviu una ressenya
No hem trobat cap ressenya als llocs habituals.
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PÓgina 362 - The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight. Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. What! do I fear myself? there's none else by Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I.
PÓgina 296 - To be ignorant of evils to come, and forgetful of evils past, is a merciful provision in nature, whereby we digest the mixture of our few and evil days, and our delivered senses not relapsing into cutting remembrances, our sorrows are not kept raw by the edge of repetitions.
PÓgina 362 - What do I fear? Myself? There's none else by. Richard loves Richard: that is, I am I. Is there a murderer here? No. Yes, I am. Then fly: what! from myself? Great reason why: Lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself? Alack, I love myself. Wherefore? For any good That I myself have done unto myself? O, no, alas! I rather hate myself For hateful deeds committed by myself.
PÓgina 288 - Yet do I believe that all this is true, which indeed my reason would persuade me to be false ; and this I think is no vulgar part of faith, to believe a thing not only above, but contrary to reason, and against the arguments of our proper senses.
PÓgina 295 - In an hydropical body ten years buried in the churchyard we met with a fat concretion, where the nitre of the earth and the salt and lixivious liquor of the body had coagulated large lumps of fat into the consistence of the hardest Castile soap, whereof part remaineth with us.
PÓgina 363 - My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree : Murder, stern murder, in the dir'st degree; All several sins, all us'd in each degree, Throng to the bar, crying all, " Guilty ! guilty !
PÓgina 400 - A disease, in my opinion, how prejudicial soever its causes may be to the body, is no more than a vigorous effort of Nature to throw off the morbific matter, and thus recover the patient.
PÓgina 297 - Letter to a Friend upon the occasion of the death of his intimate Friend, — so strangely ! the visible function of death is but to refine, to detach from aught that is vulgar.