Download Playwright Monologues (Female) GREEK: ANTIGONE: Tomb, bridal

Playwright Monologues (Female)
GREEK:
ANTIGONE: Tomb, bridal chamber, eternal prison in the caverned rock, whither I
go to find mine own, those many who have perished, and whom Persephone
hath received among the dead! Last of all shall I pass thither, and far most
miserably of all, before the term of my life is spent. But I cherish good hope that
my coming will be welcome to my father, and pleasant to thee, my mother, and
welcome, brother, to thee; for, when you died, with mine own hands I washed
and dressed you, and poured drink-offerings at your graves; and now,
Polyneices, 'tis for tending thy corpse that I win such recompense as this. And
yet I honored thee, as the wise will deem, rightly. Never had I been a mother of
children, or if a husband had been moldering in death, would I have taken this
task upon me in the city's despite.
ANTIGONE: What law, ye ask, is my warrant for that word? The husband lost,
another might have been found, and child from another, to replace the first-born;
but, father and mother hidden with Hades, no brother's life could ever bloom for
me again. Such was the law whereby I held thee first in honor; but Creon
deemed me guilty of error therein, and of outrage, ah brother mine! And now he
leads me thus, a captive in his hands; no bridal bed, no bridal song hath been
mine, no joy of marriage, no portion in the nurture of children; but thus, forlorn of
friends, unhappy one, I go living to the vaults of death. And what law of Heaven
have I transgressed?
MEDEA:
In vain, my children, have I brought you up,
Borne all the cares and pangs of motherhood,
And the sharp pains of childbirth undergone.
In you, alas, was treasured many a hope
Of loving sustentation in my age,
Of tender laying out when I was dead,
Such as all men might envy.
Those sweet thoughts are mine no more, for now bereft of you
I must wear out a drear and joyless life,
And you will nevermore your mother see,
Nor live as ye have done beneath her eye.
Alas, my sons, why do you gaze on me,
Why smile upon your mother that last smile?
Ah me! What shall I do? My purpose melts
Beneath the bright looks of my little ones.
I cannot do it. Farewell, my resolve,
I will bear off my children from this land.
Why should I seek to wring their father's heart,
When that same act will doubly wring my own?
I will not do it. Farewell, my resolve.
What has come o'er me? Shall I let my foes
Triumph, that I may let my friends go free?
I'll brace me to the deed. Base that I was
To let a thought of wickedness cross my soul.
Children, go home. Whoso accounts it wrong
To be attendant at my sacrifice,
Let him stand off; my purpose is unchanged.
Forego my resolutions, O my soul,
Force not the parent's hand to slay the child.
Their presence where we will go will gladden thee.
By the avengers that in Hades reign,
It never shall be said that I have left
My children for my foes to trample on.
It is decreed.
CASSANDRA: Where am I? Fled is the kindly light, deep darkness blinds my
eyes, and the sky, buried in gloom, is hidden away. But see! with double sun the
day gleams forth, and double Argos lifts up twin palaces! Ida's groves I see; there
sits the shepherd, fateful judge midst mighty goddesses.-- Fear him, ye kings, I
warn you, fear the child of stolen love; that rustic foundling shall overturn your
house. What means that mad woman with drawn sword in hand? What hero
seeks she with her right hand, a Spartan in her garb, but carrying an Amazonian
axe?-- What sight is that other which now employs mine eyes? The king of
beasts with his proud neck, by a base fang lies low, an Afric lion, suffering the
bloody bites of his bold lioness.-- Why do ye summon me, saved only of my
house, my kindred shades? Thee, father, do I follow, eye-witness of Troy's burial;
thee, brother, help of the Phrygians, terror of the Greeks, I see not in thine oldtime splendour, or with thine hands hot from the burning of the ships, but
mangled of limb, with those arms wounded by the deep-sunk thongs; thee,
Troilus, I follow, too early with Achilles met; unrecognizable the face thou
wearest, Deiphobus, the gift of thy new wife.
ELIZABETHAN:
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM
HELENA:
How happy some o’er other some can be!
Through Athens I am thought as fair as she.
But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so;
He will not know what all but he do know:
And as he errs, doting on Hermia’s eyes,
So I, admiring of his qualities:
Things base and vile, folding no quantity,
Love can transpose to form and dignity:
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind;
And therefore is wing’d Cupid painted blind:
Nor hath Love’s mind of any judgement taste;
Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste:
And therefore is Love said to be a child,
Because in choice he is so oft beguiled.
As waggish boys in game themselves forswear,
So the boy Love is perjured every where:
For ere Demetrius look’d on Hermia’s eyne,
He hail’d down oaths that he was only mine;
And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt,
So he dissolved, and showers of oaths did melt
HELENA
O spite! O hell! I see you all are bent
To set against me for your merriment:
If you we re civil and knew courtesy,
You would not do me thus much injury.
Can you not hate me, as I know you do,
But you must join in souls to mock me too?
If you were men, as men you are in show,
You would not use a gentle lady so;
To vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts,
When I am sure you hate me with your hearts.
You both are rivals, and love Hermia;
And now both rivals, to mock Helena:
A trim exploit, a manly enterprise,
To conjure tears up in a poor maid's eyes
With your derision! none of noble sort
Would so offend a virgin, and extort
A poor soul's patience, all to make you sport
TWELFTH NIGHT
I left no ring with her: what means this lady?
Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her!
She made good view of me; indeed, so much,
That sure methought her eyes had lost her tongue,
For she did speak in starts distractedly.
She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion
Invites me in this churlish messenger.
None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none.
I am the man: if it be so, as 'tis,
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.
How easy is it for the proper-false
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we!
For such as we are made of, such we be.
How will this fadge? my master loves her dearly;
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.
What will become of this? As I am man,
My state is desperate for my master's love;
As I am woman,.now alas the day!.
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!
O time! thou must untangle this, not I;
It is too hard a knot for me to untie!
ROMEO AND JULIET
Juliet. O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name;
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,
And for that name which is no part of thee
Take all myself.
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW
Kate: The more my wrong, the more his spite appears.
What, did he marry me to famish me?
Beggars that come unto my father's door
Upon entreaty have a present alms;
If not, elsewhere they meet with charity;
But I, who never knew how to entreat,
Nor never needed that I should entreat,
Am starv'd for meat, giddy for lack of sleep;
With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed;
And that which spites me more than all these wantsHe does it under name of perfect love;
As who should say, if I should sleep or eat,
'Twere deadly sickness or else present death.
I prithee go and get me some repast;
I care not what, so it be wholesome food.
FRENCH RENAISSANCE
TARTUFFE by Moliere
DORINE:
Well, have you lost your tongue girl? Must I play
Your part, and say the lines you ought to say?
Faced with a fate so hideous and absurd,
Can you not utter one dissenting word?
Tell him one cannot love at a father’s whim;
That you shall marry for yourself, not him;
That since it’s you who are to be the bride,
It’s you who must be satisfied;
And that if his Tartuffe is so sublime,
He’s free to marry him at any time.
Monsieur Tartuffe! Now there’s a man of weight!
Yes, yes, Monsieur Tartuffe, I’m bound to state,
Is quite a person; that’s not to be denied;
‘Twill be no little thing to be his bride.
His ears are red, he has a pink complexion,
And all in all, he’ll suit you to perfection.
MARIANNE:
Sir, by that Heaven which sees me here distressed,
And by whatever else can move your breast,
Do not employ a father’s power, I pray you,
To crush my heart and force it to obey you.
Nor by your harsh commands oppress me so
That I’ll begrudge the duty which I owe –
And do not so embitter and enslave me
That I shall hate the very life you gave me.
If my sweet hopes must perish, if you refuse
To give me to the one I’ve dared to choose,
Spare me at least – I beg you, I implore –
The pain of wedding one whom I abhor;
And do not, by a heartless use of force,
Drive me to contemplate some desperate course.
ELMIRE:
When men make overtures, must we reply
With righteous anger and a battle cry?
Must we turn back their amorous advances
With sharp reproaches and with fiery glances?
Myself, I find such offers merely amusing,
And make no scenes and fusses in refusing;
My taste is for good-natured rectitude
And I dislike the savage sort of prude
Who guards her virtue with her teeth and claws,
And tears men’s eyes out for the slightest cause:
The Lord preserve me from such honor as that,
Which bites and scratches like an alley cat!
I’ve found that a polite and cool rebuff
Discourages a lover quite enough.
MME. PERNELLE:
Children, I take my leave much vexed in spirit.
I offer good advice but you won’t hear it.
You all break in and chatter on and on.
It’s like a madhouse with the keeper gone.
Girl, you talk too much and I’m afraid
You’re far too saucy for a lady’s maid.
You push in everywhere and have your say
(And) You, boy, grow more foolish every day.
To think my grandson should be such a dunce!
I’ve said a hundred times if I’ve said it once,
That if you keep the course on which you’ve started,
You’ll leave your worthy father broken-hearted.
And you, his sister seem so pure,
So shy, so innocent, and so demure.
But you know what they say about still waters.
I pity parents with secretive daughters.
I leave this household much dismayed and vexed;
I cannot say when I shall see you next.
REALISM
“A Doll’s House” by Henrik Ibsen
Nora:
It is perfectly true, Torvald. When I was at home with papa, he told me his
opinion about everything, and so I had the same opinions; and if I differed from
him I concealed the fact, because he would not have liked it. He called me his
doll-child, and he played with me just as I used to play with my dolls. And when I
came to live with you—
I mean that I was simply transferred from papa's hands into yours. You arranged
everything according to your own taste, and so I got the same tastes as you--or
else I pretended to, I am really not quite sure which--I think sometimes the one
and sometimes the other. When I look back on it, it seems to me as if I had been
living here like a poor woman--just from hand to mouth. I have existed merely to
perform tricks for you, Torvald. But you would have it so. You and papa have
committed a great sin against me. It is your fault that I have made nothing of my
life.
“Brighton Beach Memoirs” by Neil Simon
NORA: Oh God, he was so handsome. Always dressed so dapper, his shoes
always shined. I always though he should have been a movie star…like Gary
Cooper…only very short. Mostly I remember his pockets. When I was 6 or 7, he
always brought home a little surprise. Like a Hershey or a top. He told me to go
get it in his coat pocket. So I’d run to the closet and put my hand in it and it felt
as big as a tent. I wanted to crawl in there and go to sleep. And there were all
these terrific things in there, like Juicy Fruit Gum or Spearmint Life Savers and
bits of cellophane, and crumpled pieces of tobacco, and movie stubs and nickels
and rubber bands and paper clips and his gray suede gloves that he wore in the
winter time. Then I found his coat in Mom’s closet and I put my hand in the
pocket. And everything was gone. It was emptied and dry cleaned and it felt
cold…And that’s when I knew he was really dead.
“A Streetcar Named Desire” by Tennessee Williams
BLANCHE: I, I, I, took the blows on my face and my body! All those deaths! The
long parade to the graveyard. Father, Mother, Margaret that dreadful way. So big
with it, she couldn’t be put in a coffin, but had to be burned like rubbish! You
came just in time for funerals Stella. And funerals are pretty compared to death.
Funerals are quiet, but deaths not always. Sometimes their breathing is hoarse,
sometimes it rattles, sometimes they cry out to you, “Don’t let me go!” Even the
old sometimes say it- “Don’t let me go.” As if you could stop them! Funerals are
quiet, with pretty flowers. And oh, what lovely boxes they pack you away in!
Unles you were there at the bed when they cried out “Hold me” you’d never
suspect there was struggle for breath and bleeding. You didn’t dream, but I saw!
Saw! And now you sit there telling me with your eyes that I let the place go. How
in hell do you think all that sickness and dying was paid for? Death is expensive
Miss Stella! And old Cousin Jessie, right after Margaret’s her! The grim Reaper
put his tent up on our doorstep. Stella, Belle Reve was his headquarters. Honey,
that’s how it slipped through my fingers.