To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
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.
Insomnia, Kojiro Ankan Takakuwa
All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Glamis!
All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor!
All hail, Macbeth, thou shalt be king hereafter!
Viola: Yet, a barful strife!
Whoe’er I woo, myself would be his wife.
William Heath Robinson, from Shakespeare’s comedy of Twelfth night : or, What you will, by William Shakespeare, New York, 1908.
(Source: archive.org)
Viola: She pined in thought.
William Heath Robinson, from Shakespeare’s comedy of Twelfth night : or, What you will, by William Shakespeare, New York, 1908.
(Source: archive.org)
“What is he, whose grief bears such an emphasis?”
by Edwin Austin Abbey, 1903
Yorick out…
What are these, So withered and so wild in their attire.
He’s here in double trust;
First as I am his kinsman and his subject…
(Macbeth)
John Charles Dollman, from A tribute to the genius of William Shakespeare, foreword by W. L. courtney, London, 1916.
Tercer-Sol 