Co mówią ludzie - Napisz recenzję
Nie znaleziono żadnych recenzji w standardowych lokalizacjach.
Alarum Antony arms art thou Aufidius Banquo bear blood brother Brutus Buck Buckingham Caesar Casca Cassius Catesby Clarence Cominius Coriolanus curse dead dear death deed dost doth Duch duke ears Eliz enemy Enter Exeunt Exit eyes Farewell father Faulconbridge fear Fleance friends gentle Ghost give Gloster grace Hamlet hand hath hear heart heaven honour Horatio is't John king Lady Laer Laertes Lart live look lord Macb Macbeth Macd Macduff madam majesty Marcius Mark Antony mother Murd murder never night noble peace Phil poison'd Polonius pray prince Queen Re-enter Rich Richard Roman Rome SCENE sleep soldier soul speak spirit stand sweet sword tell thane thee There's thine thing thou art thou hast Titinius to-night tongue unto Volces Volumnia Witch word
Strona 56 - Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature...
Strona 23 - I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand on end, Like quills upon the fretful porpentine : But this eternal blazon ' must not be To ears of flesh and blood.
Strona 56 - And let those, that play your clowns, speak no more than is set down for them : for there be of them, that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too ; though, in the mean time, some necessary question of the play be then to be considered : that's villainous ; and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it.
Strona 66 - Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me ! You would play upon me ; you would seem to know my stops ; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery ; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass : and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ ; yet cannot you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe ? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.
Strona 42 - ... this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a steril 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.
Strona 2 - And do you now put on your best attire ? And do you now cull out a holiday ? And do you now strew flowers in his way That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood? Be gone ! Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, Pray to the gods to intermit the plague That needs must light on this ingratitude.
Strona 52 - The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know...
Strona 57 - 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.
Strona 18 - He's here in double trust ; First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, Strong both against the deed : then, as his host, Who should against his murderer shut the door, Not bear the knife myself.
Strona 2 - O, you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops, Your infants in your arms, and there have sat The live-long day, with patient expectation, To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome: And when you saw his chariot but appear, Have you not made an universal shout, That Tiber trembled underneath her banks, To hear the replication of your sounds, Made in her concave shores?