Burgundy Monologue from The Maid of Orleans: A Tragedy

From The Maid of Orleans: A Tragedy by Friedrich Schiller

male · dramatic · 1:19 min

Oh, she can mould me to her wish; my heart Is in her forming hand like melted wax. --Duchatel, I forgive thee--come, embrace me! Shade of my sire! oh, not with wrathful eye Behold me clasp the hand that shed thy blood. Ye death-gods, reckon not to my account, That my dread oath of vengeance I abjure. With you, in yon drear realm of endless night, There beats no human heart, and all remains Eternal, steadfast, and immovable. Here in the light of day 'tis otherwise. Man, living, feeling man, is aye the sport Of the o'ermastering present. CHARLES (to JOHANNA). Lofty maid! What owe I not to thee! How truly now Hast thou fulfilled thy word,--how rapidly Reversed my destiny! Thou hast appeased My friends, and in the dust o'erwhelmed my foes; From foreign yoke redeemed my cities. Thou Hast all achieved. Speak, how can I reward thee?

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