The plays of William Shakspeare, pr. from the text of the corrected copies left by G. Steevens and E. Malone, with a selection of notes from the most eminent commentors by A. Chalmers, 4. kötet

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92. oldal - It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way : thou wouldst be great ; Art not without ambition ; but without The illness should attend it : what thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily ; wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win : thou'dst have, great Glamis, That which cries " Thus thou must do, if thou have it ; And that which rather thou dost fear to do Than wishest should be undone.
485. oldal - When that this body did contain a spirit, A kingdom for it was too small a bound; But now two paces of the vilest earth Is room enough.
105. oldal - Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand ? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight ? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain ? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw. Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going ; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o...
127. oldal - Come, seeling night, Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day; And with thy bloody and invisible hand Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond Which keeps me pale! Light thickens; and the crow Makes wing to the rooky wood: Good things of day begin to droop and drowse; Whiles night's black agents to their preys do rouse.
474. oldal - Wednesday. Doth he feel it ? No. Doth he hear it ? No. Is it insensible then ? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living ? No. Why? Detraction will, not suffer it: — therefore I'll none of it: Honour is a mere scutcheon, and so ends my catechism.
132. oldal - The times have been That, when the brains were out, the man would die, And there an end ; but now they rise again, With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, And push us from our stools.
93. oldal - Stop up the access and passage to remorse ; > That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between The effect, and it ! Come to my woman's breasts, And take my milk for gall, you murd'ring ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature's mischief...
331. oldal - No matter where; of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let's choose executors, and talk of wills; And yet not so,—for what can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
474. oldal - tis no matter; honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on? how then? Can honour set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then? No. What is honour? A word. What is that word honour? Air. A trim reckoning ! Who hath it? He that died o
424. oldal - Should I turn upon the true prince? Why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules. But beware instinct. The lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter. I was now a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself, and thee, during my life - I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince.

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