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Share your favorite speeches and moments:

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.
— Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5, lines 17-28)

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My all time favorite Heel Promo:

 

http://youtu.be/qRle3uKk7SU

 

OLIVIER~!

 

http://youtu.be/pdj6LH-hvsQ

 

Seeing Patrick Stewart in a "modern" adaptation reminds me of McKellen in this version:

 

http://youtu.be/DsGGjXZw1eQ

 

 

But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinish'd, 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;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

 

--Richard III, Act 1 Scene 1

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Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;

Or close the wall up with our English dead.

In peace there's nothing so becomes a man

As modest stillness and humility:

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,

Then imitate the action of the tiger;

Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,

Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;

Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;

Let pry through the portage of the head

Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it

As fearfully as doth a galled rock

O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,

Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.

Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,

Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit

To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.

Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!

Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,

Have in these parts from morn till even fought

And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:

Dishonour not your mothers; now attest

That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.

Be copy now to men of grosser blood,

And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here

The mettle of your pasture; let us swear

That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;

For there is none of you so mean and base,

That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,

Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:

Follow your spirit, and upon this charge

Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'

 

 

I can't seem to find an actual film clip of it, but my favorite speech from Romeo and Juliet

 

      JULIET

  1   Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,

  2   Towards Phoebus' lodging: such a wagoner

  3   As Phaëthon would whip you to the west,

  4   And bring in cloudy night immediately.

  5   Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,

  6   That runaways' eyes may wink and Romeo

  7   Leap to these arms, untalk'd of and unseen.

  8   Lovers can see to do their amorous rites

  9   By their own beauties; or, if love be blind,

10   It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,

11   Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,

12   And learn me how to lose a winning match,

13   Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods.

14   Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks,

15   With thy black mantle, till strange love grow bold,

16   Think true love acted simple modesty.

17   Come, night, come, Romeo, come, thou day in night;

18   For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night

19   Whiter than new snow on a raven's back.

20   Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow'd night,

21   Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,

22   Take him and cut him out in little stars,

23   And he will make the face of heaven so fine

24   That all the world will be in love with night

25   And pay no worship to the garish sun.

26   O, I have bought the mansion of a love,

27   But not possess'd it, and, though I am sold,

28   Not yet enjoy'd: so tedious is this day

29   As is the night before some festival

30   To an impatient child that hath new robes

31   And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse,

32   And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks

33   But Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence.

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Out, damned spot! Out I say!

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9dgbbtUbgcM

 

Doct.  What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands.

        15

  Gen.  It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands. I have known her to continue in this a quarter of an hour.

 

  Lady M.  Yet here’s a spot.

 

  Doct.  Hark! she speaks. I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.

 

  Lady M.  Out, damned spot! out, I say! One; two: why, then, ’tis time to do ’t. Hell is murky! Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

 

  Doct.  Do you mark that?

      20

  Lady M.  The Thane of Fife had a wife: where is she now? What! will these hands ne’er be clean? No more o’ that, my lord, no more o’ that: you mar all with this starting.

 

  Doct.  Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.

 

  Gen.  She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: Heaven knows what she has known.

 

  Lady M.  Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh!

 

  Doct.  What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged.

        25

  Gen.  I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the whole body.

 

  Doct.  Well, well, well.

 

  Gen.  Pray God it be, sir.

 

  Doct.  This disease is beyond my practice: yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds.

 

  Lady M.  Wash your hands, put on your night-gown; look not so pale. I tell you yet again, Banquo’s buried; he cannot come out on ’s grave.

     30

  Doct.  Even so?

 

  Lady M.  To bed, to bed: there’s knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come, give me your hand. What’s done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed.  [Exit.

 

  Doct.  Will she go now to bed?

 

  Gen.  Directly.

 

  Doct.  Foul whisperings are abroad. Unnatural deeds

        35

Do breed unnatural troubles; infected minds

 

To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets;

 

More needs she the divine than the physician.

 

God, God forgive us all! Look after her;

 

Remove from her the means of all annoyance,

       40

And still keep eyes upon her. So, good-night:

 

My mind she has mated, and amaz’d my sight.

 

I think, but dare not speak.

 

  Gen.        Good-night, good doctor.  [Exeunt.

 

 

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And this one is near and dear to my heart because I played the part in college.

 

 

You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do fear
The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor,
May now perchance both quake and tremble here,
When lion rough in wildest rage doth roar.
Then know that I, one Snug the joiner, am
A lion-fell, nor else no lion's dam;
For, if I should as lion come in strife
Into this place, 'twere pity on my life.

 

 

I also got to play Barnardine in Measure for Measure, and, despite the relative scarceness of the part, I probably got deeper into that character than any other I ever played.  He doesn't have a real speech, just some back and forth with a couple of other characters.

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Bobby beat me to Henry V, but I've always felt, as glorious as the St. Crispin's speech is, Once more unto the breach is underrated and overlooked.

 

I have a hard time thinking of Henry V, without thinking of this:

 

 

Yeah, someone had to do it.

 

On a more serious(?) note:

 

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Dominic West reads Sonnet 112

 

Your love and pity doth th’impression fill

Which vulgar scandal stamped upon my brow;

For what care I who calls me well or ill

So you o’er-green my bad, my good allow?

You are my all-the-world, and I must strive

To know my shames and praises from your tongue;

None else to me, nor I to none, alive,

That my steeled sense o’er-changes right or wrong.

In so profound abysm I throw all care

Of others’ voices, that my adder’s sense

To critic and to flatterer stopped are.

Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:

You are so strongly in my purpose bred

That all the world besides me thinks you’re dead.

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You common cry of curs, whose breath I hate


As reek a’ th’ rotten fens, whose loves I prize


As the dead carcasses of unburied men


That do corrupt my air—I banish you!


And here remain with your uncertainty!


Let every feeble rumor shake your hearts!


Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes,


Fan you into despair! Have the power still


To banish your defenders, till at length


Your ignorance (which finds not till it feels,


Making but reservation of yourselves,


Still your own foes) deliver you as most


Abated captives to some nation


That won you without blows! Despising,


For you, the city, thus I turn my back;


There is a world elsewhere. -- Coriolanus, Act III, Scene 3

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Marc Antony's funeral speech from Julius Caesar is great. Won't do the whole thing. . .just the best (IMO) part.

 

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.

You all do know this mantle: I remember

The first time ever Caesar put it on;

'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent,

That day he overcame the Nervii:

Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through:

See what a rent the envious Casca made:

Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd;

And as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,

Mark how the blood of Caesar follow'd it,

As rushing out of doors, to be resolved

If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no;

For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel:

Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him!

This was the most unkindest cut of all;

For when the noble Caesar saw him stab,

Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,

Quite vanquish'd him: then burst his mighty heart;

And, in his mantle muffling up his face,

Even at the base of Pompey's statua,

Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell.

O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!

Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,

Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us.

O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel

The dint of pity: these are gracious drops.

Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold

Our Caesar's vesture wounded? Look you here,

Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with traitors.

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I am obsessed with these sonnet readings:

Fiona Shaw reading Sonnet 154

The little Love-god lying once asleep
Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
Whilst many nymphs that vow'd chaste life to keep
Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand
The fairest votary took up that fire
Which many legions of true hearts had warm'd;
And so the general of hot desire
Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarm'd.
This brand she quenched in a cool well by,
Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual,
Growing a bath and healthful remedy
For men diseased; but I, my mistress' thrall,
   Came there for cure, and this by that I prove,
   Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.

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      LADY MACBETH
  1   That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold;
  2   What hath quench'd them hath given me fire. Hark! Peace!
  3   It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman,
  4   Which gives the stern'st good-night. He is about it:
  5   The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms
  6   Do mock their charge with snores. I have drugg'd their possets,
  7   That death and nature do contend about them,
  8   Whether they live or die.

      MACBETH [Within.]
                                               Who's there? what, ho!

      LADY MACBETH
  9   Alack, I am afraid they have awaked,
 10   And 'tis not done. The attempt and not the deed
 11   Confounds us. Hark! I laid their daggers ready;
 12   He could not miss 'em. Had he not resembled
 13   My father as he slept, I had done't.

           Enter MACBETH.

                                                             My husband!

      MACBETH
 14   I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise?

      LADY MACBETH
 15   I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry.
 16   Did not you speak?

      MACBETH
                                       When?

      LADY MACBETH
                                                   Now.

      MACBETH
                                                             As I descended?

      LADY MACBETH
 17   Ay.

      MACBETH
           Hark! Who lies i' the second chamber?

      LADY MACBETH
 18   Donalbain.

      MACBETH
                           This is a sorry sight.

           [Looking on his hands.]

      LADY MACBETH
 19   A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.

      MACBETH
 20   There's one did laugh in's sleep, and one cried "Murder!"
 21   That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them:
 22   But they did say their prayers, and address'd them
 23   Again to sleep.

      LADY MACBETH
                               There are two lodged together.

      MACBETH
 24   One cried "God bless us!" and "Amen" the other;
 25   As they had seen me with these hangman's hands.
 26   List'ning their fear, I could not say "Amen,"
 27   When they did say "God bless us!"

      LADY MACBETH
                                                             Consider it not so deeply.

      MACBETH
 28   But wherefore could not I pronounce "Amen"?
 29   I had most need of blessing, and "Amen"
 30   Stuck in my throat.

      LADY MACBETH
                                     These deeds must not be thought
 31   After these ways; so, it will make us mad.

      MACBETH
 32   Methought I heard a voice cry "Sleep no more!
 33   Macbeth does murder sleep," the innocent sleep,
 34   Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care,
 35   The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
 36   Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
 37   Chief nourisher in life's feast—

      LADY MACBETH
                                                             What do you mean?

      MACBETH
 38   Still it cried "Sleep no more!" to all the house:
 39   "Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor
 40   Shall sleep no more; Macbeth shall sleep no more."

       LADY MACBETH
 41   Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane,
 42   You do unbend your noble strength, to think
 43   So brainsickly of things. Go get some water,
 44   And wash this filthy witness from your hand.
 45   Why did you bring these daggers from the place?
 46   They must lie there: go carry them; and smear
 47   The sleepy grooms with blood.

      MACBETH
                                                       I'll go no more:
 48   I am afraid to think what I have done;
 49   Look on't again I dare not.

      LADY MACBETH
                                                 Infirm of purpose!
 50   Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead
 51   Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood
 52   That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,
 53   I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal;
 54   For it must seem their guilt.

           Exit. Knock within.

      MACBETH
                                                       Whence is that knocking?
 55   How is't with me, when every noise appalls me?
 56   What hands are here? ha! they pluck out mine eyes.
 57   Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
 58   Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather
 59   The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
 60   Making the green one red.

           Enter LADY [MACBETH].

      LADY MACBETH
 61   My hands are of your colour; but I shame
 62   To wear a heart so white. (Knock.) I hear a knocking
 63   At the south entry: retire we to our chamber;
 64   A little water clears us of this deed:
 65   How easy is it, then! Your constancy
 66   Hath left you unattended. (Knock.) Hark! more knocking.
 67   Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us,
 68   And show us to be watchers. Be not lost
 69   So poorly in your thoughts.

      MACBETH
 70   To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself.

           Knock.

 71   Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst!

           Exeunt.

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  • 4 weeks later...
  • 1 month later...

Just saw a "traditional practices" version of Twelfth Night with Mark Rylance, Samuel Barnett, and Stephen Fry. It was magnificent, staged as if it were still the Elizabethan era and the all-males cast milks the gender dynamics for all they are worth. Truly great, one of the best ensemble performances I have ever seen!

 

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Shakespeare's the best writer I've ever read.  Full stop.  I know, it's a cliche to say that, but it's true!  Which is amazing, considering he stole most of his plots and how few "definitive" final versions we have of his scripts and how often he was forced to put in a bunch of filler in order to stretch his plays out to the then-mandatory running time of at least two or three hours and how often he was obviously forced to hide whatever his personal religious or political beliefs were in order to retain his patronage.  

 

As for favorites?  Shit, man, I'd have to quote every soliloquy he ever wrote.  I don't think I'm going out on a limb by declaring Hamlet to be his best work (admittedly I haven't read the more obscure, bottom half of his complete bibliography), that's the one which seems to go especially out of its way to touch on every single level of the human experience.  But the comedies are great shit too, particularly Tempest and Much Ado.  And NOBODY could write a villain like Shakespeare; his tragic antiheroes are cool and all, but the most fascinating characters are the silver-tongued liars who repeatedly fool people who should really know better into believing some unbelievable bullshit.  Iago's the best example, but there's a bunch of ur-Iago types in many of the other works.  

 

 

As for his non-play stuff: his sonnets are mostly cutely worded bits of foreplay, it's clear he's not even trying to work on the same level as his plays.  But I'm still awfully darn fond of this particular one, designated Sonnet #130: 

 

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips' red;

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound;

I grant I never saw a goddess go;

My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.

    And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

    As any she belied with false compare. 

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