I am thy father's spirit,
Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night,
And for the day confin'd to fast in fires,
Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature
Are burnt and purg'd away. But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison-house,
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres,
Thy knotted and combined locks to part
And each particular hair to stand an end,
Like quills upon the fretful porpentine:
But this eternal blazon must not be
To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O, list!
-- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Hamlet
-- Act i, Sc. 5
Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night,
And for the day confin'd to fast in fires,
Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature
Are burnt and purg'd away. But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison-house,
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres,
Thy knotted and combined locks to part
And each particular hair to stand an end,
Like quills upon the fretful porpentine:
But this eternal blazon must not be
To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O, list!
-- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Hamlet
-- Act i, Sc. 5
Related:
- Yet do I fear thy nature;
It is too full o' the milk of human kindness.
-- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Macbeth -- Act i, Sc. 5... - Ap. My poverty, but not my will, consents.
Rom. I pay thy poverty, and not thy will.
-- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Romeo and Juliet -- Act v, Sc. 1... - Lend thy serious hearing to what I shall unfold. -- William Shakespeare
- Angels and ministers of grace, defend us!
Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd
Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked or charitable, Thou comest in such a questionable shape That I will speak to thee... - Frailty, thy name is woman! -- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Hamlet -- Act i, Sc. 2
- Buzz off, Banana Nose; Relieve mine eyes
Of hateful soreness, purge mine ears of co
Less dear than army ants in apple pies Art thou, old prune-face, with thy chestnuts worn, Dropt from thy peeling lips like lousy frui...
