A Few Notes on Shakespeare

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J. R. Smith, 1853 - Literary forgeries and mystifications - 156 pages
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Page 137 - What art thou, that usurp'st this time of night, Together with that fair and warlike form In which the majesty of buried Denmark Did sometimes march ? by heaven I charge thee, speak.
Page 105 - Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Page 128 - Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd ; Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow; Raze out the written troubles of the brain ; And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuffd bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart?
Page 120 - Thine own begotten, breaking violent way, Tore through my entrails, that with fear and pain Distorted all my nether shape thus grew...
Page 119 - If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me, Without my stir. Ban. New honours come upon him Like our strange garments ; cleave not to their mould, But with the aid of use. Macb. Come what come may ; Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.
Page 136 - I'll call thee Hamlet, King, father, royal Dane: O, answer me! Let me not burst in ignorance; but tell Why thy canoniz'd bones, hearsed in death, Have burst their cerements; why the sepulchre, Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn'd...
Page 139 - But, howsoever thou pursu'st this act, Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive Against thy mother aught; leave her to heaven, And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once. The glow-worm shows the matin to be near, And 'gins to pale his uneffectual fire; Adieu, adieu, adieu, remember me.
Page 140 - Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i' the throat, As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this? Ha! Swounds, I should take it, for it cannot be But I am pigeon-liver'd, and lack gall To make oppression bitter, or ere this I should have fatted all the region kites With this slave's offal.
Page 120 - Than wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither, That I may pour my spirits in thine ear, And chastise with the valour of my tongue All that impedes thee from the golden round, Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem To have thee crown'd withal.
Page 120 - I fled, and cried out Death; Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sighed From all her caves, and back resounded Death.

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