Shakspeare's Delineations of Insanity, Imbecility, and Suicide

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Hurd and Houghton, 1866 - 204 pages
 

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Page 100 - Look, where he comes ! Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou ow'dst yesterday.
Page 32 - Pale as his shirt; his knees knocking each other; And with a look so piteous in purport, As if he had been loosed out of hell, To speak of horrors, — he comes before me.
Page 23 - Seems, madam ! nay, it is ; I know not 'seems.' 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black...
Page 23 - Nor the dejected haviour of the visage, Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief, That can denote me truly; these indeed seem, For they are actions that a man might play: But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe.
Page 36 - I have of late — but wherefore I know not — lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises ; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory...
Page 25 - gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world. Fie on't! O fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely.
Page 8 - But I will punish home: No, I will weep no more. In such a night To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure. In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril! Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all O, that way madness lies; let me shun that; No more of that.
Page 27 - What may this mean, That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon, Making night hideous ; and we fools of nature So horridly to shake our disposition With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls ? Say, why is this ? wherefore ? what should we do ? Ghost beckons HAMLET.
Page 52 - ild you! They say the owl was a baker's daughter. Lord! we know what we are, but know not what we may be.
Page 78 - tis my John-a-Combe." But the sharpness of the satire is said to have stung the man so severely, that he never forgave it. He died in the 53d year of his age, and was buried on the north side of the chancel, in the great church at Stratford, where a monument is placed in the wall. On his grave-stone underneath is, — "Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear " To dig the dust Inclosed here.

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