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Attendants Banquo bear Birnam blood born Bring comes dare dead death deed Doct double doubt Duncan England Enter Enter MACBETH Exeunt Exit eyes face father fear fight Fleance friends Gent Give grace hand Hang hast hath head hear heart heaven hence highness hold honour hope hour I'll i'the keep king Knock known Lady leave LENOX light live look lord Macbeth Macd Macduff MALCOLM meet mind murder nature never night noble once play poor pray reason rest Rosse SCENE Scotland shew SIWARD sleep Soldiers speak spirits stand strange sword tell thane of Cawdor thanks thee There's thine things thou thou art thought Thunder tongue trouble true truth tyrant wife Witch woman wood worthy young
Сторінка 42 - But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer, 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 place, have sent to peace, Than on the torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy.
Сторінка 14 - 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.
Сторінка 13 - Yet do I fear thy nature ; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way.
Сторінка 42 - Enter MACBETH. How now, my lord ? why do you keep alone, Of sorriest fancies your companions making ? Using those thoughts which should indeed have died With them they think on ? Things without all remedy, Should be without regard : what's done is done.
Сторінка 16 - This guest of summer, The temple-haunting. martlet, does approve, By his lov'd mansionry, that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here : no jutty, frieze, Buttress, nor coigne of vantage, but this bird Hath made his pendent bed, and procreant cradle : Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ'd, The air is delicate.
Сторінка 15 - 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 !
Сторінка 72 - Put on with holy prayers : and 'tis spoken, To the succeeding royalty he leaves The healing benediction. With this strange virtue, He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy ; And sundry blessings hang about his throne, That speak him full of grace.
Сторінка 82 - Cure her of that: 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?