Shakespeare S Tragedies

‘'Methought I heard a voice cry, “Sleep no more!Macbeth does murder sleep”—the innocent sleep,Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care,The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath,Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,Chief nourisher in life's feast.[...] Still it cried, “Sleep no more!” to all the house.“Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore CawdorShall sleep no more. Macbeth shall sleep no more.”Macbeth, Act 2, Scene 2‘'Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times, and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. —Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now to mock your own grinning? Quite chapfallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favor she must come. Make her laugh at that.''Hamlet, Act 5, Scene 1‘'And what's he then that says I play the villain?When this advice is free I give and honest,Probal to thinking and indeed the courseTo win the Moor again? For ‘tis most easyThe inclining Desdemona to subdueIn any honest suit: she's framed as fruitfulAs the free elements. And then for herTo win the Moor—were't to renounce his baptism,All seals and symbols of redeemed sin,His soul is so enfetter'd to her love,That she may make, unmake, do what she list,Even as her appetite shall play the godWith his weak function. How am I then a villainTo counsel Cassio to this parallel course,Directly to his good? Divinity of hell!When devils will the blackest sins put on,They do suggest at first with heavenly shows,As I do now: for whiles this honest foolPlies Desdemona to repair his fortunesAnd she for him pleads strongly to the Moor,I'll pour this pestilence into his ear,That she repeals him for her body's lust;And by how much she strives to do him good,She shall undo her credit with the Moor.So will I turn her virtue into pitch,And out of her own goodness make the netThat shall enmesh them all.''Othello, Act 2, Scene 3‘'Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!You cataracts and hurricanoes, spoutTill you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks!You sulph'rous and thought-executing fires,Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,Strike flat the thick rotundity o' th' world,Crack Nature's moulds, all germains spill at once,That makes ingrateful man!Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain!Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire are my daughters.I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness.I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children,You owe me no subscription. Then let fallYour horrible pleasure. Here I stand your slave,A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man.But yet I call you servile ministers,That will with two pernicious daughters joinYour high-engender'd battles ‘gainst a headSo old and white as this! O! O! 'tis foul!''King Lear, Act 3, Scene 2