Much Ado About Nothing – Beatrice – Act IV, Scene I

BEATRICE

Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonored my kinswoman? Oh, that I were a man! What, bear her in hand until they come to take hands and then, with public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancor—O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the marketplace.

Princes and counties! Surely, a princely testimony, a goodly count, Count Comfect, a sweet gallant, surely! Oh, that I were a man for his sake! Or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake! But manhood is melted into curtsies, valor into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too. He is now as valiant as Hercules that only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.

Summer 2020

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark – Hamlet – Act III, Scene I HAMLET To be, or not to be? That is the question— Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And, by opposing, end them? To die, to sleep— No more—and by a sleep to say we end The heartache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to—’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished! To die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub, For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There’s the respect That makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, Th' oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th' unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovered country from whose bourn No traveler returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.

Summer 2020

Romeo & Juliet – Juliet – Act II, Scene II JULIET Thou know’st the mask of night is on my face, Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak tonight. 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 think’st 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 coying to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess, But that thou overheard’st, ere I was 'ware, My true love’s passion. Therefore pardon me, And not impute this yielding to light love, Which the dark night hath so discovered.

Summer 2020

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark – Ghost – Act I, Scene V GHOST Now, Hamlet, hear. 'Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard, A serpent stung me. So the whole ear of Denmark Is by a forgèd process of my death Rankly abused. But know, thou noble youth, The serpent that did sting thy father’s life Now wears his crown. Ay, that adulterate beast, With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts— O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power So to seduce!—won to his shameful lust The will of my most seeming-virtuous queen. But soft! Methinks I scent the morning air. Brief let me be. Sleeping within my orchard, My custom always of the afternoon, Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial, And in the porches of my ears did pour The leperous distilment. Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother’s hand Of life, of crown, of queen at once dispatched, With all my imperfections on my head. Oh, horrible, oh, horrible, most horrible! But howsoever thou pursuest this act, Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive Against thy mother aught. Leave her to heaven And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once.

Summer 2020

Romeo & Juliet – Romeo – Act III, Scene III ROMEO 'Tis torture and not mercy. Heaven is here, Where Juliet lives, and every cat and dog And little mouse, every unworthy thing, Live here in heaven and may look on her, But Romeo may not. More validity, More honorable state, more courtship lives In carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize On the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand And steal immortal blessing from her lips, Who even in pure and vestal modesty, Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin. But Romeo may not. He is banishèd. Flies may do this, but I from this must fly. They are free men, but I am banishèd. And sayst thou yet that exile is not death? Hadst thou no poison mixed, no sharp-ground knife, No sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean, But “banishèd” to kill me?—“Banishèd”! O Friar, the damnèd use that word in hell. Howling attends it. How hast thou the heart, Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, A sin-absolver, and my friend professed, To mangle me with that word “banishèd”?

Summer 2020