« ZurückWeiter »
Their hissing necks upon them from above,
And mingle kisses such as I would give them.
Hatred of a rival in glory.
He is my bane, I cannot bear him ;
One heaven and earth can never hold us both;
Still shall we hate, and with defiance deadly
Keep rage alive till one be lost for ever ;
As if two suns should meet in one meridian,
And strive in fiery combat for the passage.
When hatred and displeasure rise high on a sudden from an apprehension of injury received, and perturbation of mind in consequence of it, it is called anger ; and rising to a very high degree, and extinguishing humanity, becomes rage and fury.
Anger, when violent, expresses itself with rapidity, noise, harshness, and sometimes with interruption and hesitation, as if unable to utter itself with sufficient force. It wrinkles the brows, enlarges and heaves the nostrils, strains the muscles, clinches the fist, stamps with the foot, and gives a violent agitation to the whole body. The voice assumes the highest tone it can adopt consistently with force and loudness, though sometimes to express anger with uncommon energy, the voice assumes a low and forcible tone.
Narrative in suppressed Anger.
My liege, I did deny no prisoners. :'
But I remember when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimiy dress’d,
Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin, new reap'd,
Show'd like a stubble land at harvest-home :
He was perfumed like a milliner ;
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box which ever and anon,
He gave his nose, and took't away again ;
Who, therewith angry when it next came there,
Took it in snuff--and still he smil'd and talk’d,
And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He call’d them-untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms,
He question'd me, among the rest demanded
My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf.
I then all smarting with my wounds being cold,
To be so pestered with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience
Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what,
He should, or he should not ;-for he made me mad,
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds, (heav'n save the mark!)
And telling me the sovereign'st thing on earth,
Was parmacity for an inward bruise ;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
That villanous salt-petre should be digg'd
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd
So cowardly ; and but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.
This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord,
I answer'd indirectly, as I said,
And I beseech you, let' not his report,
Come current for an accusation,
Betwixt my love and your high majesty.
Shakespeare's Henry IV. First Part.
Scorn and violent Anger, reproving.
Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle,
I am no traitor's uncle ; and that word grace
In an ungracious mouth is but profane ;
Why have those banish’d and forbidden legs
Dar'd once to touch a dust of England's ground?
But more than why-Why have they dar'd to march
So many miles upon her peaceful bosom ;
Frighting her pale fac'd villages with war,
And ostentation of despised arms?
Com'st thou because the anointed king is hence?
Why foolish boy, the king is left behind,
And in my loyal bosom lies his pow'r.
Were I but now the lord of such hot youth
As when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myself
Rescu'd the Black Prince, that young Mars of men,
From forth the ranks of many thousand French ;
Oh, then, how quickly should this arm of mine,
Now prisoner to the palsy, chastise thee,
And minister correction to thy fault! Shakes. Rich. II.
Revenge is a propensity and endeavour to injure the offender, which is attended with triumph and exultation when the injury is accomplished. It expresses itself like malice, but more openly, loudly, and triumphantly.
I know not : if they speak but truth of her
These hands shall tear her ; if they wrong her honour,
The proudest of them shall well hear of it.
Time hath not yet so dry'd this blood of mine,
Nor age so eat up my invention,
Nor fortune made such havock of my means,
Nor my bad life 'reft me so much of friends,
But they shall find awak'd in such a kind,
Both strength of limb and policy of mind,
Ability in means, and choice of friends
To quit me of them thoroughly. Ibid. Much Ado, &c.
Oh, I could play the woman with mine eyes,
And braggart with my tongue ! But, gentle heav'n,
Cut short all intermission : front to front,
Bring thou this fiend of Scotland, and myself ;
Within my sword's length set him ; if he 'scape,
Heav'n forgive him too!
Alive! in triumph! and Mercutio slain !
Away to heaven, respective lenity,
And fire-ey'd fury be my conduct now !.
Now, Tybalt, take the villain back again,
That late thou gav'st me ; for Mercutio's soul
Is but a little way above our heads
Staying for thine to keep him company,
And thou or I, or both, shall follow him.
Romeo and Juliet.
Reproach is settled anger or hatred chastising the object of dislike, by casting in his teeth the severest censures upon his imperfections or misconduct: the brow is contracted, the lip turned up with scorn, the head shaken, the voice low, as if abhorring, and the whole body expressive of aversion.
Reproaching with Stupidity and Inconstancy.
Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?
What tributaries follow him to Rome,
To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels ?
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things !
0, you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,
Knew ye not Pompey ? Many a time and oft
Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements,
To tow'rs and windows, yea, to chimney tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The live-long day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome :
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tyber trembled underneath his banks,
To hear the replication of your sounds,
Made in his concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday ?
And do you now strew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood ?
Be gone ;
Run to your houses ; fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague,
That needs must light on this ingratitude.
Shakesp. Jul. Cas.
Reproaching with want of Friendship
You have done that you should be sorry for,
There is no terrour, Cassius, in your threats ;
For I am arm'd so strong in honesty,
That they pass by me, as the idle wind,
Which I respect not. I did send to you
For certain sums of gold, which you deny'd me;
For I can raise no money by vile means ;
No, Cassius, I had rather coin my heart,
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash
By any indirection. I did send
To you for gold to pay my legions,
Which you deny'd me : Was that done like Cassius?
Should I have answer'd Caius Cassius so ?
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,
To lock such rascal-counters from his friends,
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts,
Dash him to pieces.
Reproaching with want of Manliness.
O proper stuff!
This is the very painting of your fears ;
This is the air-drawn dagger, which, you said,
Led you to Duncan. Oh, these flaws and starts,
(Impostors to true fear) would well become
A woman's story, at a winter's fire,
Authoriz'd by her grandam. Shame itself!
Why do you make such faces ? When all's done,
You look but on a stool.
Reproaching with want of Courage and Spirit.
- Thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward,
Thou little valiant, great in villany !
Thou ever strong upon the stronger side!
Thou fortune's champion, thou dost never fight
But when her humorous ladyship iş by
To teach thee safety ! thou art perjur'd too,
And sooth’st up greatness. What a fool art thou,
A ramping fool ; to brag and stamp, and swear,
Upon my party! Thou cold blooded slave,
Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side,
Been sworn my soldier? Bidding me depend
Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength ?