Mit mondanak mások - Írjon ismertetőt
Nem találtunk ismertetőket a szokott helyeken.
Más kiadások - Összes megtekintése
accent action appear believe Bernardo better blood body cause character Clown comes common critics dead dear death doubt earth England Enter Exeunt Exit explains expression eyes fair father fear folio follow friends Furness further Ghost give Guildenstern Hamlet hand hast hath head hear heart heaven hold Horatio John keep kill King Laertes Lear leave live look lord Macb madness Marcellus mark matter means mind Moberly mother murder nature never night once Ophelia Osric passage perhaps play players Polonius pray present quarto Queen question quotes reading reason refers revenge Rich Rosencrantz says SCENE seems seen sense Shakespeare soul speak speech spirit stand sweet syllable tell Temp thee thing thou thought true verse Whole young youth
98. oldal - O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown ! The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's, eye, tongue, sword : The expectancy and rose of the fair state, The glass of fashion and the mould of form, The observed of all observers, quite, quite down!
101. oldal - O, there be players that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly, not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably.
101. oldal - And let those that play your clowns, speak no more than is set down for them : for there be of them, that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too ; though, in the mean time, some necessary question of the play be then to be considered: that's villainous; and . shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it.
163. oldal - Alas, poor Yorick ! I knew him, Horatio : a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy : he hath borne me on his back a thousand times ; and now how abhorred in my imagination it is ! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now ? your gambols ? your songs ? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar...
114. oldal - Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me. You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.
95. oldal - The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin...
66. oldal - Pale as his shirt; his knees knocking each other; And with a look so piteous in purport, As if he had been loosed out of hell, To speak of horrors, — he comes before me.
125. oldal - Ecstasy ! My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, And makes as healthful music : it is not madness That I have utter'd : bring me to the test, And I the matter will re-word ; which madness Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace, Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass, but my madness speaks : It will but skin and film the ulcerous place, Whilst rank corruption, mining all within, Infects unseen.
182. oldal - Horatio, what a wounded name, Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me ! If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, To tell my story.
182. oldal - To the ambassadors of England gives This warlike volley. Ham. O, I die, Horatio ; The potent poison quite o'er-crows my spirit : 1 cannot live to hear the news from England ; But I do prophesy the election lights On Fortinbras : he has my dying voice ; So tell him, with the occurrents, more and less, Which have solicited. The rest is silence. [Dies. Hor. Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince ; And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest ! Why does the drum come hither ? [March within.