The Works of William Shakespeare, 11. kötet

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87. oldal - ... twere, the mirror up to nature ; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure.
87. oldal - ... 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.
152. oldal - tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: - the readiness is all: Since no man has aught of what he leaves, what is't to leave betimes ? [Let be.
86. oldal - Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines.
428. oldal - Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls : Who steals my purse steals trash ; 'tis something, nothing ; 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands ; But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him And makes me poor indeed.
78. oldal - I'll leave you till night: you are welcome to Elsinore. Ros. Good my lord ! [Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Ham. Ay, so, God be wi' you : — Now I am alone. O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I ! Is it not monstrous, that this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul so to his own conceit...
82. 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...
109. oldal - Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat, Of habits devil, is angel yet in this, That to the use of actions fair and good He likewise gives a frock or livery, That aptly is put on.
36. oldal - O, that this too, too solid flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew ; Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter. O God ! O God ! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world ! Fie on't ! O fie ! 'tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed ; things rank, and gross in nature, Possess it merely.
298. oldal - tis, to cast one's eyes so low ! The crows and choughs that wing the midway air Show scarce so gross as beetles : half way down Hangs one that gathers samphire, dreadful trade! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head : The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, Appear like mice ; and yond...

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