Shakespeare's Macbeth

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Macmillan, 1898 - Всего страниц: 185
 

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Стр. 11 - By Sinel's death I know I am thane of Glamis; But how of Cawdor? The thane of Cawdor lives, A prosperous gentleman; and to be king Stands not within the prospect of belief No more than to be Cawdor.
Стр. 14 - 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...
Стр. 94 - I shall do so ; But I must also feel it as a man : I cannot but remember such things were, That were most precious to me. Did heaven look on, And would not take their part ? Sinful Macduff, They were all struck for thee ! naught that I am, Not for their own demerits, but for mine, Fell slaughter on their souls.
Стр. 31 - Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, And take the present horror from the time Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives: Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
Стр. 48 - Reigns that which would be fear'd: 'tis much he dares, And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour To act in safety. There is none but he Whose being I do fear; and under him My genius is rebuk'd, as it is said Mark Antony's was by Caesar.
Стр. 91 - Put on with holy prayers : and 'tis spoken, To the succeeding royalty he leaves The healing benediction. With this strange virtue, He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy ; And sundry blessings hang about his throne, That speak him full of grace.
Стр. 24 - To plague the inventor: This even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice To our own lips.
Стр. 21 - Your face, my thane, is as a book, where men May read strange -matters: — to beguile the time, Look like the time ; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue : look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it...
Стр. 22 - This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve By his loved mansionry that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here : no jutty, frieze, Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird Hath made his pendant bed and procreant cradle : Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed The air is delicate.
Стр. 97 - Hell is murky. Fie, my lord, fie ! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? Doct. Do you mark that? Lady M. The thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now? What, will these hands ne'er be clean? No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting.

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