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O'er rock and cave and wilderness he wanders sorrowful, As roams in exile from the herd some solitary bull: Those central powers oracular he cannot shun, for they With never-flagging energy still hover round the prey.


Is this a dagger, which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand ? Come, let me clutch

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-oppressèd brain ?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o'the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest : I see thee still:
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,

Ceu taurus exul, tristis obambulat;
Vocemque frustra sperat Apollinis
• Vitare, quæ circum minaci

Imminet irrequieta penna.

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Which was not so before.— There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business, which informs
Thus to mine eyes.—Now o'er the one half world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleeper; witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd Murder,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost.- Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it.—Whiles I threat, he lives;
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
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.

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When the night revel-dance, Bacchus, shall I share,
Barefoot leap, toss my neck in the dewy air ;

Like a deer young and gay
From the lawn chased away,
When the toils spread around
She hath clear’d with a bound,
Still with dogs and halloo

The fierce hunters pursue ;
All by the river-side like a storm she flies,
For the deep wilderness, for the desert hies?

Who his foe vanquishes, he is blest indeed,
He is wise, God-beloved : sweet is honour's meed.

The Gods are slow to wrath,
Yet swerve not from their path ;
With vengeance ever sure
They track the evil-doer,
The impious, the insane,

Who dares their power disdain :
Oft in long ambush hid wily snares they lay,
But at length, soon or late, circumvent the prey.

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