The dramatic works of William Shakespeare, revised with notes by S.W. Singer. With a life by W.W. Lloyd, Volume 6

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Page 533 - My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree; Murder, stern murder, in the dir'st degree ; All several sins, all us'd in each degree, Throng to the bar, crying all, Guilty ! guilty ! I shall despair.
Page 375 - And so I was, which plainly signified That I should snarl, and bite, and play the dog. Then, since the heavens have shap'd my body so, Let hell make crook'd my mind to answer it. I have no brother, I am like no brother; And this word 'love,' which greybeards call divine, Be resident in men like one another, And not in me!
Page 533 - What! do I fear myself ? there's none else by: Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I. Is there a murderer here ? No. Yes, I am : Then fly : what! from myself ? Great reason why : Lest I revenge. What! myself upon myself ? Alack ! I love myself. Wherefore ? for any good That I myself have done unto myself ? 0 ! no : alas ! I rather hate myself For hateful deeds committed by myself.
Page 386 - But I, that am not shap'd for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty, To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling Nature, Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time Into this breathing world scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them...
Page 48 - Will I upon thy party wear this rose. And here I prophesy, — this brawl to-day , Grown to this faction in the Temple garden, Shall send , between the red rose and the white , A thousand souls to death and deadly night.
Page 302 - To kings that fear their subjects' treachery? O, yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth! And to conclude, the shepherd's homely curds, His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade, All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, Is far beyond a prince's delicates, His viands sparkling in a golden cup, His body couched in a curious bed, When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.
Page 322 - Or hew my way out with a bloody axe. Why, I can smile, and murder whiles I smile, And cry ' Content' to that which grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face to all occasions.
Page 533 - Give me another horse! bind up my wounds! Have mercy, Jesu! Soft! I did but dream. O! coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me. The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight. Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. What! do I fear myself? there's none else by Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I.

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