A New Variorum Edition of Shakespeare: Hamlet. 1877

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J.B. Lippincott & Company, 1877
 

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Seite 162 - ild you! They say the owl was a baker's daughter. Lord! we know what we are, but know not what we may be.
Seite 259 - To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps Out of my weakness and my melancholy, As he is very potent with such spirits, Abuses me to damn me. I'll have grounds More relative than this: the play's the thing Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.
Seite 217 - I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.
Seite 345 - Murder most foul, as in the best it is; But this most foul, strange and unnatural. HAMLET. Haste me to know't, that I, with wings as swift As meditation or the thoughts of love, May sweep to my revenge.
Seite 240 - That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee.
Seite 281 - But come ; Here, as before, never, so help you mercy, How strange or odd soe'er I bear myself, As I perchance hereafter shall think meet To put an antic disposition on. That you, at such times seeing me, never shall, With arms encumber'd thus, or this head-shake, Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase, As ' Well, well, we know,' or ' We could, an if we would,' Or
Seite 371 - Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well, When our deep plots do pall : and that should teach us. There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.* Hor.
Seite 190 - Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to heaven : the fated sky Gives us free scope; only, doth backward pull Our slow designs, when we ourselves are dull.
Seite 170 - Of thinking too precisely on th' event, A thought which quarter'd hath but one part wisdom, And ever three parts coward, I do not know Why yet I live to say This thing's to do...
Seite 323 - 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.

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