(17) Монолог Дездемоны («Отелло»):

good Iago,

What shall I do to win my lord again? Good friend, go to him; for, by this light of heaven, I know not how I lost him. Here I kneel:  If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love, Either in discourse of thought or actual deed, Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense, Delighted them in any other form; Or that I do not yet, and ever did.  And ever will—though he do shake me off To beggarly divorcement—love him dearly, Comfort forswear me! Unkindness may do much; And his unkindness may defeat my life, But never taint my love. I cannot say 'whore:'  It does abhor me now I speak the word; To do the act that might the addition earn Not the world's mass of vanity could make me. 

(18) Монолог Отелло («Отелло»):

Had it pleas'd heaven To try me with affliction; had they rain'd All kinds of sores and shames on my bare head; Steep'd me in poverty to the very lips; Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes; I should have found in some place of my soul A drop of patience: but, alas, to make me A fixed figure for the time, for scorn To point his slow unmoving finger at!- Yet could I bear that too; well, very well: But there, where I have garner'd up my heart; Where either I must live or bear no life,- The fountain from the which my current runs, Or else dries up; to be discarded thence!

(19) Монолог Генриха V («Генрих V»):

If we are mark'd to die, we are enow To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. This day is called the feast of Crispian: He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remember'd; We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition: And gentlemen in England now a-bed Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

(20) Монолог Гамлета («Гамлет»):

To be, or not to be: that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause: there's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life;