Anger and Indignation

But man, proud man, Drest in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he’s most assur’d, His glassy essence, like an angry ape, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven As make the angels weep.

O! what a deal of scorn looks beautiful In the contempt and anger of his lip.

Then everything includes itself in power, Power into will, will into appetite; And appetite, a universal wolf, So doubly seconded with will and power, Must make perforce a universal prey, And last eat up himself.

Nay, an thou’lt mouth, I’ll rant as well as thou.

Though I am not splenetive and rash Yet have I in me something dangerous.

Now might I do it pat, now he is praying; And now I’ll do ’t: and so he goes to heaven; And so I am reveng’d.

O! my offense is rank, it smells to heaven; It hath the primal eldest curse upon ’t; A brother’s murder!

But I am pigeon-liver’d, and lack gall To make oppression bitter.

Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across? Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face?

O! what a rogue and peasant slave am I.

O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain! My tables—meet it is I set it down, That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain; At least I’m sure it may be so in Denmark.

There’s ne’er a villain dwelling in all Denmark, But he’s an arrant knave.

O my prophetic soul! My uncle!

A little more than kin, and less than kind.

I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman.

O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason.

O! pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, That I am meek and gentle with these butchers; Thou art the ruins of the noblest man That ever lived in the tide of times.

Cry “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war.

Speak, hands, for me!

O conspiracy! Sham’st thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, When evils are most free?

Therefore think him as a serpent’s egg Which, hatch’d, would, as his kind, grow mischievous, And kill him in the shell.

Stemming it with hearts of controversy.

Grow like savages—as soldiers will, That nothing do but meditate on blood.

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-favor’d rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect.