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Page 74 - Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal, For it must seem their guilt.
Page 139 - Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part Of me and of my soul, as I of them?
Page 138 - But love is indestructible. Its holy flame for ever burneth, From heaven it came, to heaven returneth ; Too oft on earth a troubled guest, At times deceived, at times opprest, It here is tried and purified, Then hath in heaven its perfect rest : It soweth here with toil and care, But the harvest-time of Love is there.
Page 41 - I have of late — but wherefore I know not — lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises ; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory ; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
Page 37 - Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire, And bless their critic with a poet's fire: An ardent judge, who, zealous in his trust, With warmth gives sentence, yet is always just; Whose own example strengthens all his laws; And is himself that great Sublime he draws.
Page 65 - What are these, So withered, and so wild in their attire; That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth, And yet are on't? Live you? or are you aught That man may question? You seem to understand me, By each at once her choppy finger laying Upon her skinny lips. — You should be women, And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That you are so.
Page 73 - I go, and it is done : the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven, or to hell.
Page 38 - Let such teach others who themselves excel, And censure freely who have written well. Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, But are not critics to their judgment too?
Page 74 - Sleep no more ! Macbeth doth murder sleep, the innocent sleep; Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleave ' of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast ; — Lady M. What do you mean ? Macb. Still it cried, Sleep no more ! to all the house : Glamis hath murdered sleep; and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more ; Macbeth shall sleep no more .