The Works of Shakespeare: Collated with the Oldest Copies, and Corrected, Band 6

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Seite 92 - Thou must be patient; we came crying hither. Thou know'st, the first time that we smell the air, We wawl, and cry: — I will preach to thee; mark me. Glo. Alack, alack the day ! Lear. When we are born, we cry, that we are come To this great stage of fools...
Seite 303 - I go, and it is done: the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven, or to hell.
Seite 300 - Like the poor cat i' the adage? MACB. Prithee, peace. I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none. LADY M. What beast was't, then, That made you break this enterprise to me? When you durst do it, then you were a man; And, to be more than what you were, you would Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place Did then adhere, and yet you would make both. They have made themselves, and that their fitness now Does unmake you.
Seite 304 - 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.
Seite 17 - ... we make guilty of our disasters the sun the moon and the stars ; as if we were villains by necessity, fools by heavenly compulsion, knaves thieves and treachers by spherical predominance, drunkards liars and adulterers by an enforced obedience of planetary influence, and all that we are evil in by a divine thrusting on...
Seite 294 - For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires: The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.
Seite 51 - You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age ; wretched in both ! If it be you that stir these daughters...
Seite 469 - Dost thou come here to whine ? To outface me with leaping in her grave ? Be buried quick with her, and so will I : And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw Millions of acres on us, till our ground, Singeing his pate against the burning zone, Make Ossa like a wart ! Nay, an thou'lt mouth, I'll rant as well as thou.
Seite 302 - Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
Seite 307 - The night has been unruly : where we lay, Our chimneys were blown down : and, as they say, Lamentings heard i...

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