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Antipholus arms art thou Aumerle Baling Banquo Bast Bishop of Carlisle blood Boling Bolingbroke breath castle Const cousin crown death devil dost thou doth Dromio duke Earl England Ephesus Exeunt Exit eyes face fair Falstaff father Faulconbridge fear Fleance France friends Gaunt gentle give grace grief hand Harry Percy hath head hear heart heaven Hecate Henry Henry IV honour horse Hubert Johnson King John King Richard Lady Lady Macbeth land liege live look lord Macb Macbeth Macd Macduff majesty means murder never night noble Northumberland peace Percy play Poins pray prince prince of Wales Queen Rich Rosse SCENE Scotland Shakspeare shame sleep soul speak stand Steevens sweet sword tell thane thee There's thine thou art thou hast tongue uncle villain wife Witch word York
第147页 - 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. All. Double, double toil and trouble, Fire burn, and cauldron bubble. 3 Witch. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf : Witches...
第96页 - It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way : thou wouldst be great ; Art not without ambition, but without The illness should attend it: what thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily ; wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win: thou'dst have, great Glamis, That which cries ' Thus thou must do, if thou have it; And that which rather thou dost fear to do Than wishest should be undone.
第110页 - 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 marshall'st me the way that I was going ; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o...
第501页 - Wednesday. Doth he feel it ? No. Doth he hear it ? No. Is it insensible then ? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living ? No. Why? Detraction will, not suffer it: — therefore I'll none of it: Honour is a mere scutcheon, and so ends my catechism.
第349页 - Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let's choose executors, and talk of wills; And yet not so, for what can we bequeath Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's, And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
第91页 - 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...
第139页 - Blood hath been shed ere now, i'the olden time, Ere human statute purg'd the gentle weal; Ay, and since too, murders have been perform'd Too terrible for the ear: the times have been, That, when the brains were out, the man would die, And there an end: but now, they rise again, With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, And push us from our stools: This is more strange Than such a murder is.
第501页 - tis no matter; honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on? how then? Can honour set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then? No. What is honour? A word. What is that word honour? Air. A trim reckoning ! Who hath it? He that died o
第249页 - Or, What good love may I perform for you ? Many a poor man's son would have lain still, And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you; But you, at your sick service, had a prince. Nay, you may think my love was crafty love, And call it cunning. Do, an' if you will ; If heaven be pleased that you must use me ill, Why, then you must. Will you put out mine eyes ? These eyes that never did, nor never shall, So much as frown on you ? Hub.
第288页 - 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.