
Judi Dench demanding “out, damned spot,” Nathan Lane being “busy dying,” Viola Davis declaring she’s “got a life, too”—the best stage performers don’t just recite monologues; they internalize the text and make it their own.
For a theater actor who auditions regularly, it’s essential to have a wide selection of monologues at the ready. Whether you’re looking for a piece that’s dramatic, comedic, classical, or contemporary, we’ve got you covered with this selection of monologues from plays and musicals. Choose wisely, study up, and break a leg!
“Richard III” by William Shakespeare (c. 1592–94): Richard’s boast
If you’ve been asked to audition with a verse piece, sink your teeth into this devilish monologue. Perhaps the world’s first humblebrag, the text is a startling proclamation of power from a man who’s deeply unaware of his own character flaws. Depending on your approach, it can either be a villainous rant or the darkly comedic philosophizing of a compelling antihero.
Was ever woman in this humour woo’d?
Was ever woman in this humour won?
I’ll have her; but I will not keep her long.
What! I, that kill’d her husband and his father,
To take her in her heart’s extremest hate,
With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes,
The bleeding witness of her hatred by;
Having God, her conscience, and these bars
against me,
And I nothing to back my suit at all,
But the plain devil and dissembling looks,
And yet to win her, all the world to nothing!
Ha!
Hath she forgot already that brave prince,
Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months since,
Stabb’d in my angry mood at Tewksbury?
A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman,
Framed in the prodigality of nature,
Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right royal,
The spacious world cannot again afford
And will she yet debase her eyes on me,
That cropp’d the golden prime of this sweet prince,
And made her widow to a woful bed?
On me, whose all not equals Edward’s moiety?
On me, that halt and am unshapen thus?
My dukedom to a beggarly denier,
I do mistake my person all this while:
Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot,
Myself to be a marvellous proper man.
I’ll be at charges for a looking-glass,
And entertain some score or two of tailors,
To study fashions to adorn my body:
Since I am crept in favour with myself,
Will maintain it with some little cost.
But first I’ll turn yon fellow in his grave;
And then return lamenting to my love.
Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass,
That I may see my shadow as I pass.
“The White Devil” by John Webster (1612): Vittoria’s venom
There are more playwrights you can turn to for verse monologues than just Shakespeare. In this selection from Webster’s tragedy, Venetian noblewoman Vittoria Corombona has been wrongly convicted of murdering her husband and sentenced to live in a convent for former prostitutes. She vents her anger at her would-be lover, the Duke of Brachiano, unleashing all her pain and loss. The key to this monologue comes in finding a moment of catharsis, however brief.
What have I gain’d by thee but infamy?
Thou hast stain’d the spotless honour of my house,
And frighted thence noble society:
Like those which, sick o’ th’ palsy, and retain
Ill-scenting foxes ‘bout them, are still shunn’d
By those of choicer nostrils. What do you call this house?
Is this your palace? Did not the judge style it
A house of penitent whores? Who sent me to it?
Who hath the honour to advance Vittoria
To this incontinent college? Is ‘t not you?
Is ‘t not your high preferment? Go, go, brag
How many ladies you have undone, like me.
Fare you well, sir; let me hear no more of you.
I had a limb corrupted to an ulcer,
But I have cut it off: and now I’ll go
Weeping to heaven on crutches. For your gifts,
I will return them all, and I do wish
That I could make you full executor
To all my sins—O that I could toss myself
Into a grave as quickly: for all thou art worth
I’ll not shed one tear more—I’ll burst first.
“The Crucible” by Arthur Miller (1953): Mary’s accusation
This testimony, delivered at the Salem witch trials, encompasses the themes of terror and paranoia at the heart of Miller’s Tony-winning play. Here, Mary Warren, a weak-willed teenager who’s prone to telling lies, lays out her accusation against the town midwife. With this text, you’re essentially playing a character who’s impersonating other characters. Performed sensitively, the monologue can spotlight your ability to convey both complexity and naiveté.
I never knew it before. I never knew anything before. When she come into the court I say to myself, I must not accuse this woman, for she sleeps in ditches, and so very old and poor. But then—then she sit there, denying and denying, and I feel a misty coldness climbin’ up my back, and the skin on my skull begin to creep, and I feel a clamp around my neck and I cannot breathe air; and then [entranced] I hear a voice, a screamin’ voice, and it were my voice—and all at once I remembered everything she done to me! [Like one awakened to a marvelous secret insight] So many times, Mr. Proctor, she come to this very door, beggin’ bread and a cup of cider-and mark this: whenever I turned her away empty, she mumbled. But what does she mumble? You must remember, Goody Proctor. Last month—a Monday, I think—she walked away, and I thought my guts would burst for two days after. Do you remember it?
And so I told that to Judge Hathorne, and he asks her so. “Sarah Good,” says he, “what curse do you mumble that this girl must fall sick after turning you away?” And then she replies [mimicking an old crone] “Why, your excellence, no curse at all. I only say my commandments; I hope I may say my commandments,” says she! Then Judge Hathorne say, “Recite for us your commandments!” [Leaning avidly toward them] And of all the ten she could not say a single one. She never knew no commandments, and they had her in a flat lie!
“A Raisin in the Sun” by Lorraine Hansberry (1959): Walter’s hopes
This piece from Hansberry’s groundbreaking, devastating play is a punch to the gut. Walter Younger is a Black father and husband struggling under the weight of poverty; nonetheless, he’s hopeful about the future. Here, he shares his dream with his son, Travis. Walter’s blind optimism betrays the cold, capitalist swindle of the American dream; he’s yearning for a better life that he’s unlikely to ever lead. As you deliver this speech, decide whether you believe Walter is trying to convince his child or himself.
You wouldn’t understand yet, son, but your daddy’s gonna make a transaction…a business transaction that’s going to change our lives…That’s how come one day when you ‘bout seventeen years old I’ll come home and I’ll be pretty tired, you know what I mean, after a day of conferences and secretaries getting things wrong the way they do…’cause an executive’s life is hell, man―And I’ll pull the car up on the driveway…just a plain black Chrysler, I think, with white walls―no―black tires. More elegant. Rich people don’t have to be flashy…though I’ll have to get something a little sportier for Ruth―maybe a Cadillac convertible to do her shopping in…And I’ll come up the steps to the house and the gardener will be clipping away at the hedges and he’ll say, “Good evening, Mr. Younger.” And I’ll say, “Hello, Jefferson, how are you this evening?” And I’ll go inside and Ruth will come downstairs and meet me at the door and we’ll kiss each other and she’ll take my arm and we’ll go up to your room to see you sitting on the floor with the catalogues of all the great schools in America around you…All the great schools in the world! And―and I’ll say, all right son―it’s your seventeenth birthday, what is it you’ve decided?…Just tell me where you want to go to school and you’ll go. Just tell me, what it is you want to be―Yessir! You just name it, son…and I hand you the world!
“You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown” by John Gordon (1967): Lucy’s proclamation
This selection from Clark Gesner and Gordon’s ever-charming show is a solid choice for comedic and musical theater actors alike. Though Charles M. Schulz’s iconic Lucy van Pelt has visions of grandeur, don’t minimize the vulnerability she portrays near the end of the speech. Great comedy doesn’t come from ignoring pathos, but from swimming in it.
Do you know what I intend? I intend to be a queen. When I grow up I’m going to be the biggest queen there ever was, and I’ll live in a big palace and when I go out in my coach, all the people will wave and I will shout at them, and…and…in the summertime I will go to my summer palace and I’ll wear my crown in swimming and everything, and all the people will cheer and I will shout at them…. What do you mean I can’t be queen? Nobody should be kept from being a queen if she wants to be one. It’s usually just a matter of knowing the right people. …Well…if I can’t be a queen, then I’ll be very rich then I will buy myself a queendom. Yes, I will buy myself a queendom and then I’ll kick out the old queen and take over the whole operation myself. I will be head queen.
“Fool for Love” by Sam Shepard (1983): Eddie’s love story
The key theme of Shepard’s evocative plays is the duality of masculine pain: expressed through violence in one moment, romance the next. In this monologue, the passionate, volatile Eddie recollects the day he met his now-estranged lover. The tale of infatuation at first sight is infused with sadness, providing rich sense memories that an actor can make their own.
And we walked right through town. Past the donut shop, past the miniature golf course, past the Chevron station. And he opened the bottle up and offered it to me. Before he even took a drink, he offered it to me first. And I took it and drank it and handed it back to him. And we just kept passing it back and forth like that as we walked until we drank the whole thing dry. And we never said a word the whole time. Then, finally, we reached this little white house with a red awning, on the far side of town. I’ll never forget the red awning because it flapped in the night breeze and the porch light made it glow.
It was a hot, desert breeze and the air smelt like new-cut alfalfa. We walked right up to the front porch and he rang the bell and I remember getting real nervous because I wasn’t expecting to visit anybody. I thought we were just out for a walk. And then this woman comes to the door. This real pretty woman with red hair. And she throws herself into his arms. And he starts crying. He just breaks down right there in front of me. And she’s kissing him all over the face and holding him real tight and he’s just crying like a baby.
And then through the doorway, behind them both, I see this girl. She just appears. She’s just standing there, staring at me and I’m staring back at her and we can’t take our eyes off each other. It was like we knew each other from somewhere but we couldn’t place where. But the second we saw each other, that very second, we knew we’d never stop being in love.
“Honour” by Joanna Murray-Smith (1995): Sophie’s confession
Contemporary theater has come to embrace ultra-realism in dialogue, meaning that pauses, filler words, and repeated phrases are as significant as the spoken language. That’s key to cracking this monologue, which Sophie addresses to her father’s mistress, Claudia. The piece offers plenty of opportunities to play with subtext, imbuing stumbling and silences with meaning.
I wish—I wish I was more… Like you. Like you. You’re so—you’re so clear. You seem so clear about things. Whereas I’m—I’m so—I can never quite say what I’m—even to myself, I’m so inarticulate. [Beat.] Some nights I lay awake and I go over the things I’ve said. Confidently. The things I’ve said confidently and they—they fall to pieces. [Beat.] And where there were words there is now just—just this feeling of—of impossibility. That everything is—there’s no way through it—[Pause]. I used to feel that way when I was very small. That same feeling. Not a childish feeling—well, maybe. As if I was choking on—as if life was coming down on me and I couldn’t see my way through it. What does a child who has everything suffer from? Who could name it? I can’t. I can’t. [Breaking.] But it was a—a sort of—I used to see it in my head as jungle. Around me. Surrounding me. Some darkness growing, something—organic, alive—and the only thing that kept me—kept me—here—was the picture of Honor and of Gus. Silly. [Beat.] Because I’m old now and I shouldn’t remember that anymore. Lying in bed and feeling that they were there; outside the room in all their—their warmth, their—a kind of charm to them. Maybe you’re right and it was—not so simple as it looked, but they gave such a strong sense of—love for each other and inside that—I felt—I felt loved. And since I’ve gotten older I don’t feel—[Weeping]. I feel as if all that—all the—everything that saved me has fallen from me and you know, I’m not a kid any more. No. I’m not a kid any more. But I still feel—I need—I need—[Pause.] Sorry.
“The Producers” by Mel Brooks and Thomas Meehan (2001): Leo’s testimony
In comedy, contrasts are everything—and no one knows that better than Brooks. There’s a classic turn in this speech from budding producer Leo Bloom as he testifies against his business partner, Max Bialystock. Though he’s harshly critical at first, Leo ends up earnestly complimenting Max by the end. Embrace the fun of this monologue, and make sure to evoke the presence of your unseen scene partner.
I would like to say something your honor, not on my behalf, but in reference to my partner, Mr. Bialystock….your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Max Bialystock is the most selfish man I ever met in my life…Not only is he liar, and a cheat and a scoundrel, and a crook, who has taken money from little old ladies, he has also talked people into doing things, especially me, that they would never in a thousand years had dreamed of doing. But, your honor, as I understand it the law was created to protect people from being wronged. Your honor, whom has Max Bialystock wronged? I mean, whom has he really hurt? Not me. Not me. I was…. this man…. no one ever called me Leo before. I mean, I know it’s not a big legal point, but even in kindergarten they used to call me Bloom. I never sang a song before. I mean with someone else, I never sang a song with someone else before. This man…. this man… this is a wonderful man. He made me what I am today…he did. And what of the dear ladies? What would their lives have been without Max Bialystock? Max Bialystock, who made them feel young, and attractive, and wanted again. That’s all I have to say.
“The Return” by Reg Cribb (2001): Steve’s blustering
Cribb’s “The Return” is a brutal, poetic example of a play that traffics in frank, vulgar dialogue. The story follows Steve and Trev, two young delinquents, as they terrorize their fellow passengers on a train. This antagonistic monologue from Steve, who’s fresh out of prison, is riddled with landmines for the actor performing it; it’s easy to lean too hard into Cribb’s “edginess” or devolve into yelling. But if you focus on finding the root of Steve’s anger, your delivery will feel much more natural.
No, no, no… ya can’t turn back now. I’m startin’ to see you as the voice of a very misunderstood section of our society. But you know…there’s a million of me getting’ round, mate. And they’ll all tell ya they had a tough life. You know, beaten up by their dad, in trouble with the cops, pisshead mum, rough school. A million fuckin’ excuses why they turned out to be bad eggs. And I got all of the above…Oh yeah!
Truth is, most of―em are just bored. They leave their shit-ass state school and live on the dole in their diddly bumfuck nowhere suburb. Before ya know it, ya got some girl up the duff and no money. She spends the day with a screamin’ sprog and a fag in her mouth plonked in front of a daytime soap wearin’ her tracky daks all day, dreamin’ of bein’ swept away by some Fabio and she just gets…fatter. But…her Centrelink payments have gone up and all her fat friends are waitin’ in line behind her! It’s a career move for ―em. Gettin up the duff. And you…drink with ya mates, watch the footy and the highlight of the week is the local tavern has a skimpy barmaid every Friday.
And ya know the rest of the world is havin’ a better time. Ya just know it. The magazines are tellin’ ya that, the newspapers, the telly. Everybody’s richer, everybody’s more beautiful, and everybody’s got more…purpose. And ya thinkin’, how do I make sense of this dog-ass life? And then one day ya just get hold of a gun. Ya don’t even know what ya gonna do with it. It’s like the sound of a V8 in the distance. It takes ya…somewhere else.
[Pause.] I didn’t see ya writin’ any of this down. I’m spillin’ my guts out in the name of art and you don’t give a shit. What sort of writer are ya?
“Fleabag” by Phoebe Waller-Bridge (2013): Fleabag’s desires
Before “Fleabag” became an Emmy-winning Prime Video series, it was a one-woman show performed by its writer-star. This selection from the stage version—in which Fleabag speaks to a hiring manager after he laughs at her résumé—is a gobsmackingly honest confession from a woman whose unluckiness in love is rooted in a broken sense of self. Impress the room by navigating the character’s inherent dichotomy with verve.
What if I wrote that I fucked that café into liquidation, that I fucked up my family, I fucked my friend by fucking her boyfriend, that I don’t feel alive unless I’m being fucked and I don’t feel in control unless I’m fucking, because fucking makes the world tighten around me, that I’ve been watching people fuck for as long as I’ve been able to search for it, that I know that my body as it is now is really the only thing I have and when that gets old and unfuckable I might as well just kill it, that sometimes I wish I never knew fucking existed because somehow there isn’t anything worse than someone who doesn’t want to fuck me.
That I fuck everything. But this time, I genuinely wasn’t trying to - I wasn’t - I was -
Either everyone feels like this a little bit and they’re just not talking about it, or I’m completely fucking alone. Which isn’t fucking funny.