Bentley's Miscellany, Volume 2 (Google eBook)

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Richard Bentley, 1837
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Page 584 - She should have died hereafter ; There would have been a time for such a word. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death.
Page 579 - I have given suck, and know How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me— I would, while it was smiling in my face, Have plucked my nipple from his boneless gums, And dashed the brains out, had I so sworn as you Have done to this.
Page 487 - To plague the inventor; this even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice To our own lips.
Page 65 - I'll believe thee. Rom. If my heart's dear love — Jul. Well, do not swear: although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night: It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say "It lightens.
Page 575 - 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...
Page 383 - O for pity ! — we shall much disgrace With four or five most vile and ragged foils, Right ill-disposed in brawl ridiculous, The name of Agincourt.
Page 578 - The Prince of Cumberland ! that is a step On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap, For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires ; Let not light see my black and deep desires : The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be, Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.
Page 580 - Nought's had, all's spent, Where our desire is got without content : 'Tis safer to be that which we destroy, Than, by destruction, dwell in doubtful joy.
Page 572 - I hate the Moor: And it is thought abroad, that 'twixt my sheets He has done my office: I know not if t be true; But I, for mere suspicion in that kind, Will do as if for surety.
Page 578 - 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 Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, Against the use of nature?

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