All's well that ends well. Twelfth Night. Winter's tale. Macbeth
C. Bathurst, 1773
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appear bear believe better blood bring comes Count death Duke editor Enter Exeunt Exit eyes face fair fame father fear feems fenfe fhall fhew fhould fight fome fool fortune foul fpeak friends fuch give given hand hath hear heart heaven hold honour hope I'll JOHNSON keep King lady leave live look lord Macbeth Mach madam marry matter means mind moft moſt muſt nature never night noble obferve once paffage Paul play poor pray prefent queen SCENE Shakeſpeare ſhall ſpeak STEEVENS tell thanks thee thefe THEOBALD There's theſe thing thou thou art thought true uſe WARBURTON whofe wife Witch woman worthy young youth
330 psl. - By bud of nobler race: this is an art Which does mend nature, change it rather, but The art itself is nature.
414 psl. - Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full Of direst cruelty...
417 psl. - Your face, my thane, is as a book, where men May read strange matters : to beguile the time, Look like the time ; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue : look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it.
268 psl. - That would unseen be wicked ? is this nothing ? Why, then the world, and all that's in't, is nothing; The covering sky is nothing ; Bohemia nothing; My wife is nothing; nor nothing have these nothings, If this be nothing.
466 psl. - 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.
425 psl. - If we should fail? Lady M. We fail! But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep Whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey Soundly invite him his two chamberlains Will I with wine and wassail so convince That memory, the warder of the brain, Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason A limbeck only...
428 psl. - 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?
407 psl. - New honours come upon him Like our strange garments ; cleave not to their mould. But with the aid of use. Macb. Come what come may ; Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.
460 psl. - Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night, Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day; And with thy bloody and invisible hand Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond Which keeps me pale! Light thickens; and the crow Makes wing to the rooky wood: Good things of day begin to droop and drowse; Whiles night's black agents to their preys do rouse...
101 psl. - The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not ; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our virtues.