Shakespeare's Tragedy of Macbeth: With Preface, Glossary, &c. by Israel Gollancz, M.A.

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J.M. Dent and Company, 1905 - 127 páginas

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Página 95 - 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.
Página 88 - Put on with holy prayers : and 'tis spoken, To the succeeding royalty he leaves The healing benediction. With this strange virtue, He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy ; And sundry blessings hang about his throne, That speak him full of grace.
Página 52 - Duncan is in his grave; After life's fitful fever he sleeps well; Treason has done his •worst: nor steel, nor poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, Can touch him further.
Página 91 - 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.
Página 11 - 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.
Página 29 - 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.
Página 90 - Merciful heaven ! — What, man ! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows ; Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.
Página 52 - Nought's had, all's spent, Where our desire is got without content : 'Tis safer to be that which we destroy, Than, by destruction, dwell in doubtful joy.
Página 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!
Página 60 - Blood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time, Ere human statute purg'd the gentle weal; Ay, and since too, murders have been perform'd Too terrible for the ear: the times have been, That, when the brains were out, the man would die And there an end : but now, they rise again, With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, And push us from our stools: This is more strange Than such a murder is.

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