>Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incardine, making the green one red. >All that is won and lost. Give me a kiss; even this repays me. >No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but 'tis enough, 'twill serve. ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man.
>>7556178 >the fuck is this anon talking about, I saw the movie in a theater two weeks ago >search on KAT >no results except for the older versions That's weird. Well, if you want some Macbeth right now, I warmly recommend the Polanski version.
Aaron. Madam, though Venus govern your desires, Saturn is dominator over mine: What signifies my deadly-standing eye, 765 My silence and my cloudy melancholy, My fleece of woolly hair that now uncurls Even as an adder when she doth unroll To do some fatal execution? No, madam, these are no venereal signs: 770 Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, Blood and revenge are hammering in my head. Hark Tamora, the empress of my soul, Which never hopes more heaven than rests in thee, This is the day of doom for Bassianus: 775 His Philomel must lose her tongue to-day, Thy sons make pillage of her chastity And wash their hands in Bassianus' blood. Seest thou this letter? take it up, I pray thee, And give the king this fatal plotted scroll. 780 Now question me no more; we are espied; Here comes a parcel of our hopeful booty, Which dreads not yet their lives' destruction.
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul Of the wide world dreaming on things to come, Can yet the lease of my true love control, Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured, And the sad augurs mock their own presage; Incertainties now crown themselves assured, And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Now with the drops of this most balmy time, My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes, Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme, While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes: And thou in this shalt find thy monument, When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE What's her name? DROMIO OF SYRACUSE Nell, sir; but her name and three quarters, that's an ell and three quarters, will not measure her from hip to hip. ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE Then she bears some breadth? DROMIO OF SYRACUSE No longer from head to foot than from hip to hip: she is spherical, like a globe; I could find out countries in her. ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE In what part of her body stands Ireland? DROMIO OF SYRACUSE Marry, in her buttocks: I found it out by the bogs. ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE Where Scotland? DROMIO OF SYRACUSE I found it by the barrenness; hard in the palm of the hand. ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE Where France? DROMIO OF SYRACUSE In her forehead; armed and reverted, making war against her heir. ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE Where England? DROMIO OF SYRACUSE I looked for the chalky cliffs, but I could find no whiteness in them; but I guess it stood in her chin, by the salt rheum that ran between France and it. ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE Where Spain? DROMIO OF SYRACUSE Faith, I saw it not; but I felt it hot in her breath. ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE Where America, the Indies? DROMIO OF SYRACUSE Oh, sir, upon her nose all o'er embellished with rubies, carbuncles, sapphires, declining their rich aspect to the hot breath of Spain; who sent whole armadoes of caracks to be ballast at her nose. ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE Where stood Belgia, the Netherlands? DROMIO OF SYRACUSE Oh, sir, I did not look so low.
Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, For Cassius is aweary of the world; Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother; Cheque'd like a bondman; all his faults observed, Set in a note-book, learn'd, and conn'd by rote, To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep My spirit from mine eyes! There is my dagger, And here my naked breast; within, a heart Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold: If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth; I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart: Strike, as thou didst at Caesar; for, I know, When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.
Saw this Macbeth in Summer, was fantastic, I recommend waiting for a high res blu-ray release rather than letting gorgeous cinematography and visual style go to waste in some shitty camera torrent.
"Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears. I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interrèd with their bones. So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Caesar was ambitious. If it were so, it was a grievous fault, And grievously hath Caesar answered it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest— For Brutus is an honorable man; So are they all, all honorable men— Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me. But Brutus says he was ambitious, And Brutus is an honorable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill. Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept. Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, And Brutus is an honorable man. You all did see that on the Lupercal I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, And, sure, he is an honorable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, not without cause. What cause withholds you then to mourn for him? O judgment! Thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason. Bear with me. My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must pause till it come back to me."
She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, 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. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.
reason not the need! our basest beggars are in the poorest thing superfluous. allow not nature more than nature needs, man’s life’s as cheap as beast's
The breaking of so great a thing should make A greater crack: the round world Should have shook lions into civil streets, And citizens to their dens: the death of Antony Is not a single doom; in the name lay A moiety of the world.
>>7563982 Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front; And now, instead of mounting barded steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
>>7563994 But I, that am not shaped 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, Deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my time Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come—the readiness is all. Since no man, of aught he leaves, knows what is't to leave betimes, let be.
> 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; this most excellent canopy, the air—look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire—why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors. What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world. The paragon of animals. And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me. No, nor woman neither
>Would he were fatter! But I fear him not. Yet if my name were liable to fear, I do not know the man I should avoid So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much. He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men. He loves no plays, As thou dost, Antony. He hears no music. Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort As if he mocked himself and scorned his spirit That could be moved to smile at anything. Such men as he be never at heart’s ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves, And therefore are they very dangerous. I rather tell thee what is to be feared Than what I fear, for always I am Caesar.
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