The Family Shakspeare ... in which Nothing is Added to the Original Text: But Those Words and Expressions are Omitted which Cannot with Propriety be Read Aloud in a Family ...
Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, Brown, 1825
What people are saying - Write a review
We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.
Other editions - View all
Antigonus Antipholus art thou Arth Arthur Attendants Autolycus Banquo Bast Bastard bear blood Bohemia breath brother Camillo Cawdor chain Cleomenes Const dead death deed didst Doct doth Dromio Duke England Enter Ephesus Exeunt Exit eyes fair father Faulconbridge fear Fleance France Gent gentle gentleman give grace hand hath hear heart heaven hence Hermione honour Hubert husband i'the James Gurney JEge King John Lady Lady Macbeth Leon Leontes liege look lord Macb Macbeth Macd Macduff master mistress never noble o'er o'the Pand Pandulph Paul Paulina peace poison'd Polixenes pray prince queen Rosse SCENE shame Shep Sicilia sister sleep soul speak sweet Syracusan Syracuse tell thane thee There's thine things thou art thou hast thought thyself tongue villain wife Witch
Page 180 - 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! Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell ! That my keen knife see not the wound it makes ; Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, To cry, Hold, hold ! Great Glamis ! worthy Cawdor ! Enter MACBETH.
Page 296 - 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 ? Fare you well: had you such a loss as I, I could give better comfort than you do.
Page 182 - 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.
Page 187 - 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 40 As this which now I draw.
Page 174 - This supernatural soliciting 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...
Page 210 - Avaunt ! and quit my sight ! let the earth hide thee ! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; Thou hast no speculation" in those eyes Which thou dost glare with ! LADY M.
Page 174 - Might yet enkindle you unto the crown, Besides the thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange : And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray us In deepest consequence.
Page 335 - 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.
Page 179 - 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...
Page 242 - She should have died hereafter ; There would have been a time for such a word. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle...