Shakespeare's Tragedy of Macbeth: As Produced by Edwin Booth

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Hinton, 1868 - 80 sidor
 

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Sida vii - You owe this strange intelligence? or why Upon this blasted heath you stop our way With such prophetic greeting? Speak, I charge you. [Witches vanish. Ban. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, And these are of them.
Sida 18 - That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth, And yet are on't ? Live you ? or are you aught That man may question ? You seem to understand me, By each at once her choppy finger laying Upon her skinny lips : you should be women, And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That you are so.° Macb.
Sida 47 - Duncan is in his grave ; After life's fitful fever he sleeps well ; Treason has done his worst : nor steel, nor poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, Can touch him further.
Sida 67 - Out, damned spot! out, I say! One; two: why, then, 'tis time to do't ! Hell is murky ! Fie, my Lord, fie ! a soldier, and afeard?
Sida 52 - Avaunt ! and quit my sight ! Let the earth hide thee ! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold ; Thou hast no speculation in those eyes Which thou dost glare with.
Sida 23 - The Prince of Cumberland ! that is a step, On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap, For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires ; Let not light see my black and deep desires : The eye wink at the hand ; yet let that be, Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.
Sida 18 - Are ye fantastical, or that indeed Which outwardly ye show ? My noble partner You greet with present grace and great prediction Of noble having and of royal hope, That he seems rapt withal : to me you speak not. If you can look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow and which will not, Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favours nor your hate.
Sida 65 - Merciful heaven! What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows; Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak Whispers the o'erfraught heart, and bids it break.
Sida 67 - 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.
Sida 24 - Glamis thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt be What thou art promised : yet do I fear thy nature; \ It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way...

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