The Tragedy of Macbeth

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D.C. Heath & Company, 1895 - 188 Seiten

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Seite 22 - Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.
Seite 29 - All. Fair is foul, and foul is fair : Hover through the fog and filthy air.
Seite 20 - Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great, Art not without ambition, but without The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win.
Seite 77 - 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?
Seite 81 - If thou couldst, doctor, cast The water of my land, find her disease, And purge it to a sound and pristine health, I would applaud thee to the very echo , That should applaud again.
Seite 24 - The night has been unruly : where we lay, Our chimneys were blown down ; and, as they say, Lamentings heard i...
Seite 34 - Might yet enkindle you unto the crown , Besides the thane of Cawdor. But 't is strange : And oftentimes , to win us to our harm , The instruments of darkness tell us truths ; Win us with honest trifles , to betray us In deepest consequence.
Seite 45 - Amen' the other ; As they had seen me with these hangman's hands. Listening their fear, I could not say ' Amen,' When they did say ' God bless us !
Seite 64 - Witch. 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, Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg and howlet's wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. All. Double, double toil and trouble ; 20 Fire burn and cauldron bubble. Third Witch. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, Witches...
Seite 40 - Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been So clear in his great office, that his virtues Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against The deep damnation of his taking-off ; And pity, like a naked new-born babe, Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubin, hors'd Upon the sightless couriers of the air, Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind.

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