Shakespeare's Tragedy of Macbeth

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American Book Company, 1903 - 304 pages
 

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Page 54 - This supernatural soliciting 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...
Page 228 - But wherefore could not I pronounce, Amen ? I had most need of blessing, and Amen stuck in my throat.
Page 60 - 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, Stop up the access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose...
Page 98 - Avaunt ! and quit my sight ! Let the earth hide thee ! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold ; Thou hast no speculation in those eyes Which thou dost glare with ! Lady M.
Page 99 - I pray you, speak not ; he grows worse and worse; Question enrages him : at once, good night : — Stand not upon the order of your going, But go at once.
Page 70 - 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.
Page 98 - What man dare, I dare: Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger; Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves Shall never tremble...
Page 137 - I have almost forgot the taste of fears : The time has been, my senses would have cool'd To hear a night-shriek ; and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir As life were in 't : I have supp'd full with horrors ; Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, Cannot once start me.
Page 54 - 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 135 - 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?

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