ALICE IN WONDERLAND
A monologue from the book by Lewis Carroll
ALICE: [Angrily] Why, how impolite of him. I asked him a civil
question, and he pretended not to hear me. That's not at all nice.
[Calling after him] I say, Mr. White Rabbit, where are you going? Hmmm.
He won't answer me. And I do so want to know what he is late for. I
wonder if I might follow him. Why not? There's no rule that I mayn't go
where I please. I--I will follow him. Wait for me, Mr. White Rabbit.
I'm coming, too! [Falling] How curious. I never realized that rabbit
holes were so dark . . . and so long . . . and so empty. I believe I
have been falling for five minutes, and I still can't see the bottom!
Hmph! After such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling
downstairs. How brave they'll all think me at home. Why, I wouldn't say
anything about it even if I fell off the top of the house! I wonder how
many miles I've fallen by this time. I must be getting somewhere near
the center of the earth. I wonder if I shall fall right through the
earth! How funny that would be. Oh, I think I see the bottom. Yes, I'm
sure I see the bottom. I shall hit the bottom, hit it very hard, and
oh, how it will hurt!
IPHIGENIA IN AULIS
A monologue from the play by Euripides
IPHIGENIA: Had I, my father, the persuasive voice
Of Orpheus, and his skill to charm the rocks
To follow me, and soothe whome'er I please
With winning words, I would make trial of it;
But I have nothing to present thee now
Save tears, my only eloquence; and those
I can present thee. On thy knees I hang,
A suppliant wreath, this body, which she bore
To thee. Ah! kill me not in youth's fresh prime.
Sweet is the light of heaven; compel me not
What is beneath to view. I was the first
To call thee father, me thou first didst call
Thy child; I was the first that on thy knees
Fondly caressed thee, and from thee received
The fond caress; this was thy speech to me:
"Shall I, my child, e'er see thee in some house
Of splendour, happy in thy husband, live,
And flourish, as becomes my dignity?"
My speech to thee was, leaning 'gainst thy cheek,
Which with my hand I now caress: "And what
Shall I then do for thee? Shall I receive
My father when grown old, and in my house
Cheer him with each fond office, to repay
The careful nurture which he gave my youth?"
These words are on my memory deep impressed;
Thou hast forgot them, and wilt kill thy child.
By Pelops I entreat thee, by thy sire
Atreus, by this my mother, who before
Suffered for me the pangs of childbirth, now
These pangs again to suffer, do not kill me.
If Paris be enamoured of his bride,
His Helen, what concerns it me? and how
Comes he to my destruction? Look upon me,
Give me a smile, give me a kiss, my father,
That, if my words persuade thee not, in death
I may have this memorial of thy love.
My brother, small assistance canst thou give
Thy friends, yet for thy sister with thy tears
Implore thy father that she may not die:
E'en infants have a sense of ills: and see,
My father, silent though he be, he sues
To thee: be gentle to me, on my life
Have pity. Thy two children by this beard
Entreat thee, thy dear children: one is yet
An infant, one to riper years arrived.
I will sum all in this, which shall contain
More than long speech: To view the light of life
To mortals is most sweet, but all beneath
Is nothing: of his senses is he reft
Who hath a wish to die; for life, though ill,
Excels whate'er there is of good in death.
ELECTRA
A monologue from the play by Sophocles
ELECTRA: Holy Light, with Earth, and Sky,
Whom thou fillest equally,
An how many a note of woe,
Many a self-inflicted blow
On my scarred breast might'st thou mark,
Ever as recedes the dark;
Known, too, all my nightlong cheer
To bitter bed and chamber drear,
How I mourn my father lost,
Whom on no barbarian coast
Did red Ares greet amain,
But as woodmen cleave an oak
My mother's axe dealt murderous stroke,
Backed by the partner of her bed,
Fell ®gisthus, on his head;
Whence no pity, save from me,
O my father, flows for thee,
So falsely, foully slain.
Yet I will not cease from sighing,
Cease to pour my bitter crying,
While I see this light of day,
Or the stars' resplendent play,
Uttering forth a sound of wail,
Like the child-slayer, the nightingale,
Here before my father's door
Crying to all men evermore.
O Furies dark, of birth divine!
O Hades wide, and Proserpine!
Thou nether Hermes! Ara great!
Ye who regard the untimely dead,
The dupes of an adulterous bed,
Come ye, help me, and require
The foul murder of our sire;
And send my brother back again;
Else I may no more sustain
Grief's overmastering weight.
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM
A monologue from the play by William Shakespeare
HELENA: How happy some o'er other some can be!
Through Athens I am thought as fair as she.
But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so;
He will not know what all but he do know.
And as he errs, doting on Hermia's eyes,
So I, admiring of his qualities.
Things base and vile, holding no quantity,
Love can transpose to form and dignity.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste;
Wings, and no eyes, figure unheedy haste.
And therefore is Love said to be a child,
Because in choice he is so oft beguiled.
As waggish boys in game themselves forswear,
So the boy Love is perjured everywhere.
For ere Demetrius looked on Hermia's eyne,
He hailed down oaths that he was only mine;
And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt,
So he dissolved, and show'rs of oaths did melt.
I will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight.
Then to the wood will he to-morrow night
Pursue her; and for this intelligence
If I have thanks, it is a dear expense.
But herein mean I to enrich my pain,
To have his sight thither and back again.
THE MISANTHROPE
A monologue from the play by Moli•re
CELIMENE: Madam, I have many thanks in return to you, and such advice
lays me under great obligation. Far from taking it unkindly, I am only
too anxious at once to prove my gratitude by giving you on my part a
certain piece of advice, which, wonderful to say, closely concerns your
honour; and as I see you prove yourself my friend by informing me of
the reports that people spread about me, I wish, in my turn, to follow
so pleasing an example by acquainting you with what is said of you. In
a certain house, where I was visiting the other day, I met with people
of the most striking merit; and they, speaking of the duties of a
person who leads a virtuous life, turned the conversation, madam, upon
you. There, your prudishness and the vehemence of your zeal were by no
means quoted as a good example. That affectation of a grave demeanour;
your everlasting speeches on discretion and honour; your simpering, and
your outcries at the shadow of any impropriety which an innocent though
ambiguous word may present; the high esteem in which you hold yourself,
and the looks of pity you cast upon others; your frequent lectures and
your sharp censures on things which are harmless and pure; all this,
madam, if I may speak the plain truth, was blamed by common accord.
"What signify," said they, "that modest mien and that grave manner,
which are belied by all the rest? She is most exact at all her prayers,
but she beats her servants and pays them no wages. She makes the
greatest display of fervour in all places of worship, but she paints
and wishes to appear beautiful. She has all nudities covered in her
pictures, but she delights in the reality." For my part, I undertook
your defense against every one, and assured them it was all calumny;
but the general opinion went against me, and the conclusion was that
you would do well to be less solicitous about other people's actions
and take more pains about your own; that we should examine ourselves a
great deal before thinking of condemning others; that we ought to add
the weight of an exemplary life to the corrections we pretend to make
in our neighbors; and that, after all, it would be better still to
leave that care to those who were ordained by Heaven for it. Madam, I
believe that you also are too sensible not to take in good part this
kindly-meant advice, and not to attribute it to the earnestness of an
affection which makes me anxious for your welfare.
ROMEO AND JULIET
A monologue from the play by William Shakespeare
JULIET: Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face;
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night.
Fain would I dwell on form -- fain, fain deny
What I have spoke; but farewell compliment!
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say 'Ay';
And I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear'st,
Thou mayst prove false. At lovers' perjuries,
They say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully.
Or if thou thinkest I am too quickly won,
I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond,
And therefore thou mayst think my havior light;
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those that have more cunning to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess,
But that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware,
My true-love passion. Therefore pardon me,
And not impute this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night hath so discovered.
TWELFTH NIGHT
A monologue from the play by William Shakespeare
VIOLA: I left no ring with her. What means this lady?
Fortune forbid my outside have not charmed her.
She made good view of me; indeed, so much
That, as methought, her eyes had lost her tongue,
For she did speak in starts distractedly.
She loves me sure; the cunning of her passion
Invites me in this churlish messenger.
None of my lord's ring? Why, he sent her none.
I am the man. If it be so, as 'tis,
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.
How easy is it for the proper false
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we,
For such as we are made of, such we be.
How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly;
And I (poor monster) fond as much on him;
And she (mistaken) seems to dote on me.
What will become of this? As I am man,
My state is desperate for my master's love.
As I am woman (now alas the day!),
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe?
O Time, thou must untangle this, not I;
It is too hard a knot for me t' untie.
CAIN
A monologue from the play by Lord Byron
ADAH: 'Twere better that he never had been born?
Oh, do not say so! Where were then the joys,
The mother's joys of watching, nourishing,
And loving him? Soft! he awakes. Sweet Enoch!
Oh, Cain! look on him; see how full of life,
Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joyÑ
How like to meÑhow like to thee, when gentleÑ
For then we are all alike; is't not so, Cain?
Mother, and sire, and son, our features are
Reflected in each other; as they are
In the clear water, when they are gentle, and
When thou art gentle. Love us, then, my Cain!
And love thyself for our sakes, for we love thee.
Look! how he laughs and stretches out his arms,
And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine,
To hail his father; while his little form
Flutters as winged with joy. Talk not of pain!
The childless cherubs well might envy thee
The pleasures of a parent! Bless him, Cain!
As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but
His heart will, and thine own too.
FOURTEEN
A monologue from the play by Alice Gerstenberg
MRS. PRINGLE: I shall
-people ought to know
and regret and regret
dinner party--my very
go mad! I'll never entertain again--never--neverwhether they're coming or not--but they accept
and accept--they drive me wild. This is my last
last--a fiasco--an utter fiasco! A haphazard
crowd--hurried together--when I had planned everything so beautifully-now how shall I seat them--how shall I seat them? If I put Mr. Tupper
here and Mrs. Conley there then Mrs. Tupper has to sit next to her
husband and if I want Mr. Morgan there--Oh! It's impossible--I might as
well put their names in a hat and draw them out at random--never again!
I'm through! Through with society--with parties--with friends--I wipe
my slate clean--they'll miss my entertainments--they'll wish they had
been more considerate--after this, I'm going to live for myself! I'm
going to be selfish and hard--and unsociable--and drink my liquor
myself instead of offering it gratis to the whole town!--I'm through-Through with men like Oliver Farnsworth!--I don't care how rich they
are! How influential they are--how important they are! They're nothing
without courtesy and consideration--business--off on train--nonsense-didn't want to come--didn't want to meet a sweet, pretty girl--didn't
want to marry her--well, he's not good enough for you!--don't you marry
him! Don't you dare marry him! I won't let you marry him! Do you hear?
If you tried to elope or anything like that, I'd break it off--yes, I
would--Oliver Farnsworth will never get recognition from me!--He is
beneath my notice! I hate Oliver Farnsworth!
AN IDEAL HUSBAND
A monologue from the play by Oscar Wilde
MABEL CHILTERN: Well, Tommy has proposed to me again. Tommy really does
nothing but propose to me. He proposed to me last night in the musicroom, when I was quite unprotected, as there was an elaborate trio
going on. I didn't dare to make the smallest repartee, I need hardly
tell you. If I had, it would have stopped the music at once. Musical
people are so absurdly unreasonable. They always want one to be
perfectly dumb at the very moment when one is longing to be absolutely
deaf. Then he proposed to me in broad daylight this morning, in front
of that dreadful statue of Achilles. Really, the things that go on in
front of that work of art are quite appalling. The police should
interfere. At luncheon I saw by the glare in his eye that he was going
to propose again, and I just managed to check him in time by assuring
him that I was a bimetallist. Fortunately I don't know what bimetallism
means. And I don't believe anybody else does either. But the
observation crushed Tommy for ten minutes. He looked quite shocked. And
then Tommy is so annoying in the way he proposes. If he proposed at the
top of his voice, I should not mind so much. That might produce some
effect on the public. But he does it in a horrid confidential way. When
Tommy wants to be romantic he talks to one just like a doctor. I am
very fond of Tommy, but his methods of proposing are quite out of date.
I wish, Gertrude, you would speak to him, and tell him that once a week
is quite often enough to propose to any one, and that it should always
be done in a manner that attracts some attention.
THE TINKER'S WEDDING
A monologue from the play by John Millington Synge
MARY: [A priest is tied in a sack, wriggling and struggling about on
the ground. The others bundle things together in a wild haste while old
Mary tries to keep him quiet.] Be quiet, your reverence. What is it
ails you, with your wrigglings now? Is it choking maybe? [She puts her
hand under the sack, and feels his mouth, patting him on the back.]
It's only letting on you are, holy father, for your nose is blowing
back and forward as easy as an east wind on an April day. [In a
soothing voice.] There now, holy father, let you stay easy, I'm telling
you, and learn a little sense and patience, the way you'll not be so
airy again going to rob poor sinners of their scraps of gold. [He gets
quieter.] That's a good boy you are now, your reverence, and let you
not be uneasy, for we wouldn't hurt you at all. It's sick and sorry we
are to tease you; but what did you want meddling with the like of us,
when it's a long time we are going our own ways--father and son, and
his son after him, or mother and daughter, and her own daughter again-and its little need we ever had of going up into a church and swearing-I'm told there's swearing with it--a word no man would believe, or
with drawing rings on our fingers, would be cutting our skins maybe
when we'd be taking the ass from the shafts, and pulling the straps the
time they'd be slippy with going around beneath the heavens in rains
falling. [To the others.] Maybe he'd swear a mighty oath he wouldn't
harm us, and then we'd safer loose him; for if we went to drown him,
they'd maybe hang the batch of us, man and child and woman, and the ass
itself. [To the priest.] Would you swear an oath, holy father, to leave
us in our freedom, and not talk at all? [Priest nods in sacking.]
Didn't I tell you? Look at the poor fellow nodding his head off in the
bias of the sacks. Strip them off from him, and he'll be easy now.
ALWAYS RIDICULOUS
A monologue from the play by Jose Echegaray
REMEDIOS: You may say what you like, Don Cosme, I can't agree that
Teresina is quite as complex as you think she is, and I'm certainly not
subject to illusions. I know the World; I'm not an ingenuous child; I
say I'm not because, good Lord! no widow has any business to be one.
Although I must admit that as far as years go, and in looks and manner,
I am still something of a child. But that's because of certain
characteristics. Don't you think so? Why don't you speak? You
understand my character? [Turning toward DON COSME and looking
carefully at him.] Good Lord! the man's asleep again! Up at ten this
morning, it's now eleven. And he sleeps! No, sir! I must have somebody
to talk to. Teresina is in the garden flirting with the two of them-spinning like a planet between her two poles, Juan and Eugenio. Don
Pablo has gone on his usual walk. Don Hilarion? No one knows where he
is! Here I am left alone with Don Cosme, and he sleeps, leaving me in
full monologue. I won't stand it! I came to this house on the express
condition that I should not be bored, and the condition is not being
fulfilled. The place is beautiful--Art, Oh! plenty of Art--pictures,
tapestry, statues, bronzes, porcelains; and Nature, Oh! a great deal of
Nature, woods and flowers and lakes and water-falls and sunsets! But
all that's not enough. There is no Life! No warmth! As they say
nowadays, the warmth of humanity. And he goes on sleeping! This life is
giving that man softening of the brain. Don Cosme! Oh, Don Cosme!
[Striking him with her fan] Open your eyes!
CHARGE
A monologue from the play by Eric Kaiser
MARTHA: There was a woman. A single mother living in this terrible, or
terribly excitingly terrible place called the hood, it is full of a
naughty little substance called crack, and has people driving small van
like cars then shooting people from them, it's a terribly excitingly
terrible place. Anyway a lady namedÉwell they all called her Sista!!
Sista? Isn't that charming? Well she had a son that everyone called
Brutha', Now I have not yet determined if indeed they are biological
brothers and sisters. But I don't think so because Brutha called
SistaÉMutha. Now Brutha also had a Brutha that was called Brutha's
Brutha, and Sista was also his Mutha. So we have Brutha, Brutha's
Brutha and Sista which is their Mutha. Understand? Well Brutha was a
hard one, and Brutha's Brutha was a soft one. Brutha was in a sordid
little group called a gang. And Brutha's Brutha was in a safe little
group called a chess club. While Brutha would drive around in little
cars and Scream "I'm gonna blow your head of You dead Fucker." Brutha's
Brutha would sit and say "Checkmate." They both shared a common goal
though. And that was "GETTING OUT." One wanted to shoot his way out and
the other wanted think his way out. [Pause.] Getting out huh? Do you
understand that? Wanting to break free from all that you are bound too?
I wish we could break out. Can we break out?
IT'S A FAMILY AFFAIR--WE'LL SETTLE IT OURSELVES
A monologue from the play by Alexander Ostrovsky
LIPOCHKA: What a pleasant occupation these dances are! Very good
indeed! What could be more delightful? You go to the assembly, or to
somebody's wedding, you sit down, naturally, all beflowered like a doll
or a magazine picture. Suddenly up runs a gentleman: "May I have the
happiness, miss?" Well, you see, if he's a man of wit, or a military
individual, you accept, drop your eyes a little, and answer: "If you
please, with pleasure!" Ah! [Warmly] Most fas-ci-nat-ing! Simply beyond
understanding! [Sighs] I dislike most of all dancing with students and
government office clerks. But it's the real thing to dance with army
men! Ah, charming! Ravishing! Their mustaches, and epaulets, and
uniforms, and on some of them even spurs with little bits of bells.
Only it's killingly tiresome that they don't wear a sabre. Why do they
take it off? It's strange, plague take it! The soldiers themselves
don't understand how much more fascinatingly they'd shine! If they were
to take a look at the spurs, the way they tinkle, especially if a uhlan
or some colonel or other is showing off--wonderful! It's just splendid
to look at them--lovely! And if he'd just fasten on a sabre, you'd
simply never see anything more delightful, you'd just hear rolling
thunder instead of the music. Now, what comparison can there be between
a soldier and a civilian? A soldier! Why, you can see right off his
cleverness and everything. But what does a civilian amount to? Just a
dummy. [Silence] I wonder why it is that so many ladies sit down with
their feet under their chairs. There's positively no difficulty in
learning how! Although I was a little bashful before the teacher, I
learned to do it perfectly in twenty lessons. Why not learn how to
dance? It's only a superstition not to. Here mamma sometimes gets angry
because the teacher is always grabbing at my knees. All that comes from
lack of education. What of it? He's a dancing-master and not somebody
else. [Reflecting] I picture to myself: suddenly a soldier makes
advances to me, suddenly a solemn betrothal, candles burn everywhere,
the butlers enter, wearing white gloves; I, naturally, in a tulle or
perhaps in a gauze gown; then suddenly they begin to play a waltz--but
how confused I shall be before him! Ah, what a shame! Then where in the
world shall I hide? What will he think? "Here," he'll say, "an
uneducated little fool!" But, no, how can that be! Only, you see I
haven't danced for a year and a half! I'll try it now at leisure.
[Waltzing badly] One--two--three; one--two--three . . .