disdain, indignity
injured merit, impairment
shame
fixedness (of will, mind)
repentance
conscience
remorse
despair (annihilation of hope)
gratitude, (in)capacity to feel
rage
malice
spite
revenge
envy
ambition
self-creation
freedom
choice
equal rights
pride
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks
Nor made to court an amorous looking glass
I that am rudely stamped and want love’s majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph,
I that am curtailed of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time
Into this breathing world scarce half made up-And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them . . .
Glamis thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt be
What thou art promised; yet do I fear thy nature,
It is too full o’th’ milk of human kindness
To catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great,
Art not without ambition, but without
The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly,
That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false,
And yet wouldst wrongly win . . .
If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well
It were done quickly; if th’assassination
Could trammel up the consequence and catch
With his surcease, success, that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all-here,
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,
We’d leap the life to come . . . I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself
And falls on th’other . . .
She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word-Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
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.
And it is thought abroad that ’twixt my sheets
He’s done my office. I know not if’t be true,
But I, for mere suspicion in that kind,
Will do as if for surety. . .
. . . I do suspect the lusty Moor
Hath leapt into my seat--the thought whereof
Doth, like a poisonous mineral, gnaw my inwards;
And nothing can or shall content my soul
Till I am evened with him, wife for wife;
Or failing so, yet that I put the Moor
At least into a jealousy so strong
That judgement cannot cure. . .
But jealous souls will not be answered so
They are not ever jealous for the cause,
But jealous for they’re jealous. It is a monster
Begot upon itself, born on itself . . .
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him . . .
The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious.
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answered it . . .
He was my friend, faithful and just to me;
But Brutus says he was ambitious,
And Brutus is an honourable man . . .
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept;
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff;
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious,
And Brutus is an honourable man.
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious,
And Brutus is an honourable man.
disdain, indignity
injured merit, impairment
shame
fixedness (of will, mind)
repentance
conscience
remorse
despair (annihilation of hope)
gratitude, (in)capacity to feel
rage
malice
spite
revenge
envy
ambition
self-creation
freedom
choice
equal rights
pride