The Aldus Shakespeare: With Copious Notes and Comments, Band 29

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Bigelow Smith, 1909

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Seite 184 - My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain.
Seite 43 - But then I sigh, and with a piece of Scripture, Tell them — that God bids us do good for evil ; And thus I clothe my naked villany With old odd ends, stolen forth of holy writ ; And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.
Seite 7 - Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun And descant on mine own deformity; And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, To entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Seite 6 - He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
Seite 184 - I shall, despair. — There is no creature loves me ; And, if I die, no soul will pity me : — Nay, wherefore should they ? since that I myself Find in myself no pity to myself. Methought, the souls of all that I had murder'd Came to my tent : and every one did threat To-morrow's vengeance on the head of Richard.
Seite 40 - Ay, and much more : but I was born so high, Our aery buildeth in the cedar's top, And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun.
Seite 47 - With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears Such hideous cries, that with the very noise, I trembling wak'd, and, for a season after, Could not believe but that I was in hell; Such terrible impression made my dream.
Seite 45 - All scattered in the bottom of the sea, Some lay in dead men's skulls ; and in those holes Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept (As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems, That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep, And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.
Seite 44 - I have pass'da miserable night, So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, That, as I am a Christian faithful man, I would not spend another such a night, Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days, — So full of dismal terror was the time.
Seite 5 - Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York ; And all the clouds, that lower'd upon our house, In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

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