The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

Methuen, 1905 - 215 Seiten

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Seite 59 - ... this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory ; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you,— this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, — why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. — What a piece of work is a man ! How noble in reason ! how infinite in faculties ! in form and moving, how express and admirable ! in action, how like an angel ! in apprehension, how like a god ! the beauty...
Seite 58 - O God, I could be bounded in a nut-shell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.
Seite 54 - tis true, 'tis true, 'tis pity ; And pity 'tis, 'tis true : a foolish figure ; But farewell it, for I will use no art. Mad let us grant him then : and now remains, That we find out the cause of this effect ; Or, rather say, the cause of this defect ; For this effect, defective, comes by cause : Thus it remains, and the remainder thus.
Seite 33 - Nor the dejected haviour of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shows of grief, That can denote me truly : these, indeed, seem, For they are actions that a man might play ; But I have that within, which passeth show, These but the trappings and the suits of woe.
Seite 120 - Horatio, what a wounded name, Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me ! If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, To tell my story.
Seite 65 - 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 111 - I loved Ophelia: forty thousand brothers Could not, with all their quantity of love, Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her? King. O, he is mad, Laertes. Queen. For love of God, forbear him, Ham.
Seite 34 - gainst self-slaughter! O God! God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable, Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on't! Ah, fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely.
Seite 30 - A mote it is to trouble the mind's eye. In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets...
Seite 45 - The leperous distilment ; whose effect Holds such an enmity with blood of man That swift as quicksilver it courses through The natural gates and alleys of the body, And with a sudden vigour it doth posset...

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