The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

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D.C. Heath & Company, 1917 - 262 Seiten
 

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Seite 13 - Why, she would hang on him As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on; and yet, within a month Let me not think on't!
Seite 126 - ... in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chapfallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing. Hor. What's that, my lord? Ham. Dost thou think...
Seite 25 - What may this mean, That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon, Making night hideous; and we fools of nature So horridly to shake our disposition With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?
Seite 20 - Neither a borrower nor a lender be ; For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all : to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Seite 197 - And he answered and said unto them, I tell you that, if these should hold their peace, the stones would immediately cry out.
Seite 66 - The expectancy and rose of the fair state, The glass of fashion and the mould of form, The observed of all observers, quite, quite down ! And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, That suck'd the honey of his music vows, Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh...
Seite 60 - Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave, That I, the son of a dear father murder'd, Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words, And fall a-cursing, like a very drab, A scullion!
Seite 130 - 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 92 - Ecstasy! My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, And makes as healthful music. It is not madness That I have utter'd : bring me to the test, And I the matter will re-word, which madness Would gambol from.
Seite 127 - No, faith, not a jot; but to follow him thither with modesty enough, and likelihood to lead it : as thus : Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth into dust ; the dust is earth ; of earth we make loam ; and why of that loam, whereto he was converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel...

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