Butler Monologue from The Death of Wallenstein

From The Death of Wallenstein by Friedrich Schiller

male · dark · 1:11 min

You have heard already, To-morrow to the Swedes belongs. This night Alone is ours. They make good expedition. But we will make still greater. Fare you well. (GORDON: Ah! your looks tell me nothing good. Nay, Butler, I pray you promise me!) The sun has set; A fateful evening doth descend upon us, And brings on their long night! Their evil stars Deliver them unarmed into our hands, And from their drunken dream of golden fortunes The dagger at their hearts shall rouse them. Well, The duke was ever a great calculator; His fellow-men were figures on his chess-board To move and station, as his game required. Other men's honor, dignity, good name, Did he shift like pawns, and made no conscience of Still calculating, calculating still; And yet at last his calculation proves Erroneous; the whole game is lost; and low! His own life will be found among the forfeits.

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