Ką žmonės sako - Rašyti recenziją
Neradome recenzijų įprastose vietose.
Kiti leidimai - Peržiūrėti viską
Pagrindiniai terminai ir frazės
arms attendants Bast bear better blood born break breath bring brother Camillo child comes dead death doth Dromio Duke ears England Enter Exeunt Exit eyes face fair false father fear fellow France give gone grace hand hast hath head hear heart heaven hence highness hold honour hour Hubert husband I'll John keep king Lady land leave Leon live look lord Macb Macbeth Macd master mean mistress mother nature never night noble once Paul peace poor pray present prince queen Rosse SCENE Shep sleep soul speak stand stay strange sweet tell thee There's thine things thou art thought tongue true truth wife Witch young
59 psl. - O Proserpina, For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let'st fall From Dis's waggon ! daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets, dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses, That die unmarried, ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength, a malady Most incident to maids ; bold oxlips, and The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds, The flower-de-luce being one!
231 psl. - I have lived long enough : my way of life Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf ; And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have ; but, in their stead, Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.
181 psl. - 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 marshal'st me the way that I was going, And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth...
209 psl. - Witch. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the cauldron boil and bake : Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing, For a charm of powerful trouble ; Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
323 psl. - This England never did, (nor never shall,) Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself. Now these her princes are come home again, Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them : Nought shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true.
199 psl. - 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 prey do rouse.
170 psl. - Cannot be ill ; cannot be good : If ill, Why hath it given me earnest of success, Commencing in a truth ? I am thane of Cawdor : If good, why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, Against the use of nature ? Present fears Are less than horrible imaginings : My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man, that function Is smother'd in surmise; and nothing is, But what is not.
286 psl. - Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form: Then have I reason to be fond of grief.
178 psl. - Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been So clear in his great office, that his virtues Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against The deep damnation of his taking-off: And pity, like a naked new-born babe, Striding the blast...
223 psl. - Himself best knows : but strangely-visited people All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, The mere despair of surgery, he cures; Hanging a golden stamp about their necks, Put on with holy prayers ; and 'tis spoken, To the succeeding royalty he leaves The healing benediction.