Soliloquies Analysis

Soliloquies from William Shakespear’s Macbeth
David Gauthier
http://www.shakespeare-online.com/plays/macbethscenes.html


Act 1 Scene 5


Lady Macbeth

Original


The raven himself is hoarse 
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan 
Under my battlements. Come, you spirits 
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, 
And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full 
Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood; 
Stop up the access and passage to remorse, 
That no compunctious visitings of nature 
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between 
The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts, 
And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers, 
Wherever in your sightless substances 
You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night, 
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, 
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, 
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, 
To cry 'Hold, hold!' 

Personal Translation

That death himself is speechless with the unfortunate coming of Duncan
Under my roof. Come demons and evil spirits, take the weakness of a woman away from me,
And fill my entire body full
Of the fiercest evil! Make my blood thick;
Stop the ability to feel guilt and remorse,
That no guilty part of my nature
Disturbs my goal, nor keep the peace between
My purpose and its fulfilment! Come to my breasts,
And turn my milk in to bile, you murdering sprits,
Wherever in your blind mixes
You wait on unnatural horrors! Come, thick night,
And wrap me in the darkest smoke from hell,
That my sharp knife does not see the wound it makes,
Nor my good nature to break through the darkness,
To cry ‘Stop, stop!’


Act 1 Scene 7(1-29)

Original

MACBETH: If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly: if the 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'ld jump the life to come. But in these cases
We still have judgment here; that we but teach
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
To plague the inventor:
this even-handed justice
Commends the ingredience of our poison'd chalice
To our own lips. He's here in double trust;
First, as I am his kinsman and his subject,
Strong both against the deed; then, as his host, 
Who should against his murderer shut the door,
Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been
So clear in his great office, that his virtues
Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against 
The deep damnation of his taking-off;
And pity, like a naked new-born babe,
Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubin, horsed
Upon the sightless couriers of the air,
Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, 
That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself
And falls on th'other.

Personal Translation
MACBETH: If the deed were done with the moment it is committed,
Then it would be well to do it quickly.
If the act of murder could hold in check
Any unpleasant consequences and secure success with Duncan’s death,
So that this one blow might be all that is necessary
And the end of the whole matter here,
But now, upon this collection of time,
We’d evade the life to come. But in these cases
We still have judgement here, in that we teach
Bloody teachings, which being taught recoil
on the head of the mastermind of the crime. This fair justice
Presents the ingredients of our corrupted goblet
To our own lips. He’s here in complete trust:
First, I am a relative and his subject,
Both are strongly against the deed; then, as his host,
Who should against his murderer shut the door,
Not bear the knife myself. Anyways, this Duncan
Has exercised his powers so gently, has been
So blameless as King, that his virtues
Will advocate like angels, advertise against
The deadly sin of his death.
And so sad, like a helpless newborn baby,
Walking the gust of air, or heaven’s order of angels, riding
Upon the invisible messengers of the wind,
Shall blow the horrid deed in every one,
That shall lessen the grief of death with the anger of the crime. I have no incentive
To urge on my purpose, but only
Over ambition, which over does itself,
And falls on the other–

Act 2 Scene 1(33-61)

Original

MACBETH: Is this a dagger which I see before me,

The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest; I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, 
Which was not so before. There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one halfworld
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep; witchcraft celebrates 
Pale Hecate's offerings, and wither'd murder,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace.
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth, 
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives:
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. 
A bell rings.
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven or to hell.

Personal Translation

MACBETH: Is this a dagger that I am seeing,
Withe the handle towards my hands? Come let me hold you.
I have not got you, and yet I still see you.
Are you not, ominous vision, capable
of being grasped by the senses other than sight? Or are you but
A dagger of the mind, an unreal creation,
Proceeding from the fever?
I see you yet, in form as believable
As the dagger I now draw.
You direct me to the place where I was going,
And such a weapon I was to use.
My own eyes are the fools of the other senses,
Or else they are more reliable than the rest. I still see you;
And on your blade and wrath drops of blood,
Which was not there before. There’s no such thing.
It is the bloody business which creates
this shape before my eyes. Now over the one half-world
All natural things seem dead, and unnatural things abuse
My sleeping eyelids; witchcraft parties
Pale Hecate’s sacrifices; and withered murder,
Summoned by his sentinel the wolf,
Whose howl’s his watch, this with his silent pace,
With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost. You sure and solid ground,
Don’t hear my footsteps, where they go, for fear
Your very stones tell of my whereabouts,
And take the present fear from the time,
Which now suits with it. While I threat, he lives:
Words to blow the flames of action.
[A bell rings]
I go, and it is done. The bell calls me.
Do not hear it Duncan, for it is a warning
That summons you to heaven or to hell.


Act 3 Scene 1(47-71)

Original

MACBETH: But to be safely thus.--Our fears in Banquo

Stick deep; and in his royalty of nature Reigns that which would be fear'd: 'tis much he dares; 
And, to that dauntless temper of his mind,
He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour
To act in safety. There is none but he
Whose being I do fear: and, under him,
My Genius is rebuked; as, it is said,
Mark Antony's was by Caesar. He chid the sisters
When first they put the name of king upon me,
And bade them speak to him: then prophet-like
They hail'd him father to a line of kings:
Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown, 
And put a barren sceptre in my gripe,
Thence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand,
No son of mine succeeding. If 't be so,
For Banquo's issue have I filed my mind;

For them the gracious Duncan have I murder'd; 
Put rancours in the vessel of my peace
Only for them; and mine eternal jewel
Given to the common enemy of man,
To make them kings, the seed of Banquo kings!
Rather than so, come fate into the list. 
And champion me to the utterance! Who's there!

Personal Translation

MACBETH: To be king as I am is worth nothing,
but to be secure on my throne is everything. Our fears in Banquo
Stick like daggers, and in his natural,
King-like dignity inspires awe. This much he dares,
And to that heroic quality of his mind,
He has a wisdom that does guide his resolution
To act safely. There is no one but him
Who I do fear; and under him
My intelligence is scolded, as it is said
Mark Antony’s was by Caesar. He called on the sisters,
When they laid the title of king on me,
And asked them to speak to him. Then, like a prophet,
The hailed him a father to a line of kings.
They placed a meaningless crown on my head,
And an empty scepter in my hand,
So to be torn away by those not of my descendants,
No son of mine will be king. If it be so,
For Banquo’s issue has filled my mind,
For them the gracious Duncan I murdered,
Put bitterness in the vessel of my serenity
Only for them, and my eternal charm
Given to the common enemy of man,
To make them kings, Banquo’s children to be kings.
Rather than that, come fate, into the list,
And ally me to the revelation. Who’s there?

Act 5 Scene 5 (17-28)

Original

MACBETH: Wherefore was that cry?

SEYTON :The queen, my lord, is dead. 

MACBETH: She should have died hereafter; 

There would have been a time for such a word.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, 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 sounds and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Personal Translation

MACBETH: What was that cry?

SEYTON: The queen died my lord.

MACBETH: She should have died after the battle,
There would have been time to talk to her.
The next day, and the day after that, and the day after that,
Creeps in the trivial pace from day to day
To the last word of the book of life,
And from the meaningless future he turned to
The insanity of the past. Out, out, brief candle!
Life is but a shadow, a horrid actor
That walks and yells during his time on stage.
And then is silenced: It is a story
Told by an idiot, full of noise,
Proving nothing.The certainty of death is so great

Poem Analysis for "my father moved through dooms of love"

my father moved through dooms of love
Written by ee cummings
Personal Analysis by David Gauthier
my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height

this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if(so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm

newly as from unburied which
floats the first who, his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots

and should some why completely weep
my father's fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.

Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin

joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice

keen as midsummer's keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly(over utmost him
so hugely) stood my father's dream

his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn't creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.

Scorning the Pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain

septembering arms of year extend
yes humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is

proudly and(by octobering flame
beckoned)as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark

his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he'd laugh and build a world with snow.

My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)

then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine, passion willed,
freedom a drug that's bought and sold

giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear, to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am

though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit, all bequeath

and nothing quite so least as truth
--i say though hate were why men breathe--
because my Father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all.


This poems seems like a very sad poem because of the fact that it talks about the unhappy things in life such as death and disease. When I looked on why this poem was written, I understood why this is such a dark poem because it was honouring his late father. When his father had died, cummings was told that his father was killed instantly and that his mother had directed people to cover his father even though she was bleeding very heavily before she allowed people to help her. That is why this section, "his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn't creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile." is in the poem.

And he was mourning his father’s death.
The way that he uses words in ways that do not follow proper grammar shows that the person in this poem is very sad because they are in the state that they can not speak properly because they are in shock or so sad that grammatical rules are thrown out the window. For example the first two lines, "my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give," show it.
Because of this, I believe that e.e. cummings had a very good relationship with his father to have that level of disrepair and grief when his father died and he showed that he was racked with sorrow and despair because he father, whom he had written other poems to when he was younger, was gone forever.