Macbeth: A Tragedy

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Nassau Steam Press, 1889 - 72 Seiten

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Seite 24 - 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.
Seite 32 - 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 44 - 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.
Seite 23 - The Prince of Cumberland ! that is a step, On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap, 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 20 - New honours come upon him Like our strange garments ; cleave not to their mould, But with the aid of use. Macb. Come what come may ; Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.
Seite 50 - I will) to the weird sisters : More shall they speak ; for now I am bent to know, By the worst means, the worst. For mine own good, All causes shall give way : I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er : Strange things I have in head, that will to hand ; Which must be acted ere they may be scann'd.
Seite 53 - I conjure you, by that which you profess, (Howe'er you come to know it,) answer me : Though you untie the winds, and let them fight Against the churches ; though the yesty waves Confound and swallow navigation up; Though bladed corn be lodg'd, and trees blown down; Though castles topple on their warders...
Seite 51 - Fillet of a fenny snake, In the cauldron boil and bake ; Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog...
Seite 49 - Can such things be, And overcome' us like a summer's cloud, Without our special wonder?
Seite 44 - 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.

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