The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

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American Book Company, 1895 - 163 oldal

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125. oldal - King What is the cause, Laertes, That thy rebellion looks so giant-like? Let him go, Gertrude; do not fear our person: There's such divinity doth hedge a king, That treason can but peep to what it would, Acts little of his will.
107. oldal - You cannot call it love : for at your age, The hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble, And waits upon the judgment, and what judgment Would step from this to this?
81. oldal - tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them ? — To die, — to sleep, — No more ; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, — to sleep ; — To sleep ! perchance to dream : — ay, there's the rub ; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come. When we have shuffled off this mortal...
66. oldal - tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so: to me it is a prison.
83. oldal - I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious; with more offences at my beck, than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in...
107. oldal - See what a grace was seated on this brow ; Hyperion's curls, the front of Jove himself, An eye like Mars, to threaten and command; A station like the herald Mercury New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ; A combination and a form indeed, Where every god did seem to set his seal To give the world assurance of a man : This was your husband.
81. oldal - To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time.
110. 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, Whiles rank corruption, mining all within, Infects unseen.
102. oldal - But O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn ? " Forgive me my foul murder ?" That cannot be ; since I am still possess'd Of those effects for which I did the murder, My crown, mine own ambition and my queen.
144. oldal - ... 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? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come ; make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing. Hor. What's that, my lord? Ham. Dost thou think Alexander looked o'...

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