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?

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