The Psychoanalytic Review

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W.A. White & S.E. Jelliffe, 1920 - Psychoanalysis
 

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Page 67 - It is too full o' the milk of human kindness, To catch the nearest way : Thou would'st be great ; Art' not without ambition ; but without The illness should attend it. What thou would'st highly, That would'st thou holily ; would'st not play false, And yet would'st wrongly win : thou'd'st have, great Glamis, That which cries, Thus thou must do, if thou have it : And that which rather thou dost fear to do, Than wishest should be undone.
Page 68 - tis not done; the attempt and not the deed Confounds us. Hark! I laid their daggers ready; He could not miss them. Had he not resembled My father as he slept I had done 't.
Page 165 - Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart ? Doct.
Page 67 - The raven himself is hoarse, That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements. Come, all you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here ; And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full Of direst cruelty...
Page 68 - I have given suck, and know How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me: I would, while it was smiling in my face, Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums, And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you Have done to this.
Page 164 - tis time to do't. Hell is murky. Fie, my lord, fie ! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? Doct. Do you mark that? Lady M. The thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now? What, will these hands ne'er be clean? No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting.
Page 69 - Nought's had, all's spent, Where our desire is got without content : 'Tis safer to be that which we destroy Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.
Page 69 - Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil.
Page 69 - I hear a knocking At the south entry : retire we to our chamber : A little water clears us of this deed : How easy is it, then ! Your constancy Hath left you unattended.
Page 67 - Your face, my thane, is as a book, where men May read strange matters : — To beguile the time, Look like the time ; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue : look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it. He that's coming Must be provided for : and you shall put This night's great business into my despatch : Which shall to all our nights and days to come Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom.

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