Hamlet: Entire Play - 16 views
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twelve
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Satoko Ayabe on 17 Oct 13Motif - the dark, ominous night
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mouse stirring
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This bodes some strange eruption to our state.
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you tremble and look pale:
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Good now, sit down, and tell me, he that knows, Why this same strict and most observant watch So nightly toils the subject of the land, And why such daily cast of brazen cannon, And foreign mart for implements of war; Why such impress of shipwrights, whose sore task Does not divide the Sunday from the week; What might be toward, that this sweaty haste Doth make the night joint-labourer with the day: Who is't that can inform me?
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Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets: As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood, Disasters in the sun; and the moist star Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse: And even the like precurse of fierce events, As harbingers preceding still the fates And prologue to the omen coming on, Have heaven and earth together demonstrated Unto our climatures and countrymen.-- But soft, behold! lo, where it comes again!
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Stay, illusion!
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Cock crows
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Speak to me: If there be any good thing to be done, That may to thee do ease and grace to me, Speak to me:
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For it is, as the air, invulnerable,
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The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat Awake the god of day; and, at his warning, Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, The extravagant and erring spirit hies To his confine: and of the truth herein This present object made probation
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malicious mockery
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Saviour's birth is celebrated,
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guilty thing Upon a fearful summons.
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Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it, As needful in our loves, fitting our duty?
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With mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage,
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Now follows, that you know
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And now, Laertes, what's the news with you? You told us of some suit; what is't, Laertes? You cannot speak of reason to the Dane, And loose your voice: what wouldst thou beg, Laertes, That shall not be my offer, not thy asking? The head is not more native to the heart, The hand more instrumental to the mouth, Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father. What wouldst thou have, Laertes?
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How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
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ot so, my lord; I am too much i' the sun
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thy nighted colour off,
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dust:
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Seems, madam! nay it is; I know not 'seems.' 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shapes 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
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It shows a will most incorrect to heaven, A heart unfortified, a mind impatient, An understanding simple and unschool'd: For what we know must be and is as common As any the most vulgar thing to sense, Why should we in our peevish opposition Take it to heart? Fie! 'tis a fault to heaven, A fault against the dead, a fault to nature,
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I shall in all my best obey you, madam.
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canon
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Frailty, thy name is woman!
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My father's brother, but no more like my father Than I to Hercules
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O, most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!