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Page 161 - Hell is murky! — Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? — Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? Doct. Do you mark that? Lady M. The thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now? — What, will these hands ne'er be clean ? — No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting.
Page 158 - And wakes it now, to look so green and pale At what it did so freely? From this time Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valour As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem, Letting "I dare not" wait upon "I would," Like the poor cat i
Page 158 - Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place Did then adhere, and yet you would make both : They have made themselves, and that their fitness now Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me : I would, while it was smiling in my face, Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums, And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you Have done to this.
Page 405 - Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled, The fragments of an earlier world ; A wildering forest feathered o'er His ruined sides and summit hoar, While on the north, through middle air, Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare. xv. From the steep promontory gazed The stranger, raptured and amazed, And,
Page 158 - Like the poor cat i' the adage ? Macbeth. Prithee, peace : I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none. Lady Macbeth. What beast was't then That made you break this enterprise to me? When you durst do it, then you were a man; And, to be more than what you were, you would 50 Be so much more the man.
Page 450 - Tossing the torches' flames about. And the double double peals of the drum are there. And the startling burst of the trumpet's blare ; And the gong, that seems, with its thunders dread, To stun the living, and waken the dead. The ear-strings throb as if they were broke, And the eye-lids drop at the weight of its stroke.
Page 146 - Catches her child, and pointing where the waves Foam through the shatter'd vessel, shrieks aloud, As one poor wretch that spreads his piteous arms For succour, swallow'd by the roaring surge...
Page 158 - Was the hope drunk, Wherein you dress'd yourself? hath it slept since ? And wakes it now, to look so green and pale At what it did so freely?
Page 466 - Equity is a roguish thing ; for law we have a measure, know what to trust to ; equity is according to the conscience of him that is Chancellor, and as that is larger or narrower, so is equity. 'Tis all one as if they should make the standard for the measure we call a foot...