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Updated: May 29, 2025
Speak it me in a voice that thunders it out indeed: I am the bold 'Thunder'. 'Thun'. I am the bold 'Thunder'. He was now with Penkethman, now with Cibber and others, joint-manager of a theatrical booth at Bartholomew Fair. Penkethman, Bullock and Dogget were in those days Macbeth's three witches.
A little girl under Birkett's care in Guy's Hospital more than answered to Macbeth's requisition, "Had I three ears I'd hear thee!" since she possessed two superfluous ones at the sides of the neck, somewhat lower than the angle of the jaw, which were well developed as to their external contour and made up of fibrocartilage.
If you wish to see a failure, try the ghost, the moral but not affable ghost, in Wordsworth's "Laodamia." It is blasphemy to ask the question, but is the ghost in "Hamlet" quite a success? Do we not see and hear a little too much of him? Macbeth's airy and viewless dagger is really much more successful by way of suggestion.
'The Steadmans come from that part of the country, and theirs is a hereditary service. Good-night, Mary, I am utterly weary. Look at that glorious light yonder, that mighty world of fire and flame, without which our little world would be dark and dreary. I often think of that speech of Macbeth's, "I 'gin to be aweary of the sun." There comes a time, Mary, when even the sun is a burden.
They would not quite be able to keep a coach, but they might get a chariot and pasteboard dragons from Mr. Rich's theatre. The baby might be christened in Macbeth's caldron; and Harry and harlequin ought certainly to be godfathers. "Why shouldn't she marry him if she likes him?" asked little Hetty. "Why should he not love her because she is a little old?
Yes, a Pot of Broth, and one more classic than any black broth ever supped by Spartan; more pregnant of Fate than the hell-broth compounded by Macbeth's witches; broth in which was brewed the destiny of a great nation, broth but for whose brewing I certainly, and you, if you be of Pilgrim strain, had never been, for in its seething liquid was dissolved a wide-spread and most powerful conspiracy that in its fruition would have left Plymouth Rock a funeral monument in a field of blood.
The sowars cut branches for us to hold over our shoulders to keep the heat of the afternoon sun off neck and back Birnam woods a deux, and Nampoung fort instead of Macbeth's castle. Nampoung the edge of the Empire! We are now well into the Kachin Highlands, 6000 to 7000 feet above the sea, and the air is delicious. The last part of our ride here was very steep.
Such deeply tragic poetry as that of James Thomson, B. V., for instance, which asserts Macbeth's conclusion that life is "a tale told by an idiot," is saved from utter chaos sufficiently to keep its poetical character, only because the memory of his dead love gives Thomson a conception of eternal love and beauty by which to gauge his hopeless despair.
Banquo, by an early death, atones for the ambitious curiosity which prompted the wish to know his glorious descendants, as he thereby has roused Macbeth's jealousy; but he preserved his mind pure from the evil suggestions of the witches: his name is blessed in his race, destined to enjoy for a long succession of ages that royal dignity which Macbeth could only hold for his own life.
"'A hit a hit a very palpable hit!" she quoted, clapping her hands in her glee. "Were not witches an eldritch race," said Shakespeare, "you, mistress, might well lie under grave suspicion." "What what! Do I not fit the wizened stamp of Macbeth's sisters three?" Shakespeare flung out his arms with a gesture of despair. "Yet more and deeper mystery!" he cried.
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