National Review, Volume 17

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Robert Theobold, 1863
 

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Page 305 - 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 pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums, And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you Have done to this.
Page 296 - 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 306 - Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.
Page 310 - 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.
Page 316 - Duncan is in his grave ; After life's fitful fever he sleeps well; Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, Can touch him further.
Page 319 - tis later, sir. Ban. Hold, take my sword. There's husbandry in heaven, Their candles are all out. Take thee that too. A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, And yet I would not sleep. Merciful powers, Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature Gives way to in repose!
Page 527 - O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, which killest the prophets, and stonest them that are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered thy children together, as a hen doth gather her brood under her wings, and ye would not...
Page 190 - THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Page 305 - Art thou afear'd To be the same in thine own act and valour, As thou art in desire ? Would'st thou have that Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem; Letting "I dare not" wait upon "I would," Like the poor cat i
Page 309 - You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, To cry 'Hold, hold!

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