1disdain, 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
2But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks Nor made to court an amorous looking glassI that am rudely stamped and want love’s majestyTo 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 timeInto this breathing world scarce half made up--And that so lamely and unfashionableThat dogs bark at me as I halt by them . . .
3Glamis 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 kindnessTo catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great,Art not without ambition, but withoutThe illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly,That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false,And yet wouldst wrongly win . . .
4If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well It were done quickly; if th’assassinationCould trammel up the consequence and catchWith his surcease, success, that but this blowMight 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 spurTo prick the sides of my intent, but onlyVaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itselfAnd falls on th’other . . .
5She 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 foolsThe way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle,Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor playerThat struts and frets his hour upon the stage,And then is heard no more. It is a taleTold by an idiot, full of sound and furySignifying nothing.
6And 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 MoorHath leapt into my seat--the thought whereofDoth, like a poisonous mineral, gnaw my inwards;And nothing can or shall content my soulTill I am evened with him, wife for wife;Or failing so, yet that I put the MoorAt least into a jealousy so strongThat judgement cannot cure. . .But jealous souls will not be answered soThey are not ever jealous for the cause,But jealous for they’re jealous. It is a monsterBegot upon itself, born on itself . . .
7Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears. I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him . . .The noble BrutusHath told you Caesar was ambitious.If it were so, it was a grievous fault,And grievously hath Caesar answered itHe 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?
8disdain, 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