The Complete Works of William Shakespeare: Macbeth. Othello

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Pagina 179 - My very noble and approv'd good masters, That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, It is most true ; true, I have married her : The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech, And little bless'd with the soft phrase of peace ; For since these arms of mine had seven years...
Pagina 43 - I go, and it is done ; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan ; for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell.
Pagina 201 - It gives me wonder great as my content To see you here before me. O my soul's joy! If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken'd death, And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas Olympus-high and duck again as low As hell's from heaven. If it were now to die, 'Twere now to be most happy; for I fear My soul hath her content so absolute That not another comfort like to this Succeeds in unknown fate.
Pagina 64 - Ere we will eat our meal in fear and sleep In the affliction of these terrible dreams That shake us nightly : better be with the dead, Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace, Than on the torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy.
Pagina 102 - 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.
Pagina 42 - Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still; And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, Which was not so before. — There's no such thing: It is the bloody business which informs Thus to mine eyes. — Now o'er the one...
Pagina 287 - It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul — Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars ! — It is the cause. Yet I'll not shed her blood; Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow, And smooth as monumental alabaster.
Pagina 111 - Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow ; Raze out the written troubles of the brain ; And, with some sweet oblivious antidote, Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart ? Doct.
Pagina 41 - 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?
Pagina 35 - tis done, then 'twere well It were done quickly; if the assassination Could trammel up the consequence, and catch With his surcease success : that but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, We'd jump the life to come.

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