Shakespeare's Macbeth

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H. Holt, 1911 - 173 pages
 

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Page 10 - By Sinel's death I know I am Thane of Glamis ; But how of Cawdor? the Thane of Cawdor lives, A prosperous gentleman; and to be king Stands not within the prospect of belief, No more than to be Cawdor.
Page 83 - tis time to do't. — Hell is murky ! — Fie, my lord, fie ! a soldier, and afeard ? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account ? — Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him ? Doct. Do you mark that ? Lady At. 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.
Page 17 - Thus thou must do, if thou have it ; And that which rather thou dost fear to do Than wishest should be undone.' Hie thee hither, That I may pour my spirits in thine ear, And chastise with the valour of my tongue All that impedes thee from the golden round, Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem To have thee crown'd withal.
Page 16 - 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.
Page 80 - I shall do so ; But I must also feel it as a man : I cannot but remember such things were, That were most precious to me.
Page 24 - And we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep — Whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey Soundly invite him — his two chamberlains Will I with wine and wassail so convince. That memory, the warder of the brain. Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason A limbeck only: when in swinish sleep Their drenched natures lie as in a death. What cannot you and I perform upon Th
Page 12 - tis strange : And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray 's In deepest consequence. Cousins, a word, I pray you. Macb. [Aside] Two truths are told, As happy prologues to the swelling act Of the imperial theme.
Page 18 - The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements. Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood...
Page 8 - The weird sisters, hand in hand, Posters of the sea and land, Thus do go about, about: Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, And thrice again, to make up nine.
Page 18 - You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, To cry 'Hold, hold!

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