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answer Antony arms Attendants bear better blood bring brother Cæs Cæsar Cassio cause Cleo comes daughter dead dear death dost doth Duke Emil Enter Exeunt Exit eyes fair fall false farewell father fear follow fool fortune friends Gent give gods gone grace Guard Hamlet hand hast hath head hear heard heart heaven hold honest honour I'll Iago Italy keep Kent king lady lago Lear leave live look lord Madam marry matter mean mother nature never night noble once play poor Post pray Queen SCENE seen sleep soldier soul speak stand sweet sword tell thank thee thine thing thou thou art thought true villain wife
54 psl. - O ! it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings ; who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows, and noise ; I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant ; it out-herods Herod : pray you avoid it.
55 psl. - That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee.
11 psl. - tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this! But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two: So excellent a king; that was, to this, Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly.
501 psl. - Fear no more the frown o' the great: Thou art past the tyrant's stroke. Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust.
161 psl. - Stain my man's cheeks ! No, you unnatural hags, I will have such revenges on you both, That all the world shall I will do such things What they are yet I know not ; but they shall be The terrors of the earth.
100 psl. - Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy, he hath 'borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar?
346 psl. - The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, Burn'd on the water : the poop was beaten gold ; Purple the sails, and so perfumed that The winds were love-sick with them ; the oars were silver, Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made The water which they beat to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes.
129 psl. - This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune, (often the surfeit of our own behaviour) we make guilty of our disasters , the sun, the moon, and the stars: as if we were villains by necessity; fools, by heavenly compulsion ; knaves, thieves, and treachers, by spherical predominance ; drunkards, liars, and adulterers, by an enforced obedience of planetary influence, and all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on.