Anger and Indignation

Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be What thou art promis’d. Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness 49 To catch the nearest way.

O! the fierce wretchedness that glory brings us.

I am Misanthropos, and hate mankind.

Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.

You fools of fortune, trencher-friends, time’s flies.

Men shut their doors against a setting sun.

Immortal gods, I crave no pelf; I pray for no man but myself: Grant I may never prove so fond, To trust man on his oath or bond.

I wonder men dare trust themselves with men.

Then, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!

You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face.

Out, vile jelly!

I am a man More sinn’d against than sinning.

I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness.

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world! Crack nature’s molds, all germens spill at once That make ingrateful man!

That sir which serves and seeks for gain, And follows but for form, Will pack when it begins to rain, And leave thee in the storm.

How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is To have a thankless child!

Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend, More hideous, when thou show’st thee in a child, Than the sea-monster.

Now, gods, stand up for bastards!

Come not between the dragon and his wrath.

In Aleppo once, Where a malignant and a turban’d Turk Beat a Venetian and traduc’d the state, I took by the throat the circumcised dog, And smote him thus.

O heaven! that such companions thou’dst unfold, And put in every honest hand a whip To lash the rascals naked through the world.

O thou weed! Who art so lovely fair and smell’st so sweet That the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst ne’er been born.

I understand a fury in your words, But not the words.

Like to the Pontick sea, Whose icy current and compulsive course Ne’er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on To the Propontic and the Hellespont, Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace, Shall ne’er look back, ne’er ebb to humble love, Till that a capable and wide revenge Swallow them up.