Cashel Monologue from The Admirable Bashville; Or, Constancy Unrewarded Being the Novel of Cashel Byron's Profession Done into a Stage Play in Three Acts and in Blank Verse, with a Note on Modern Prize Fighting

From The Admirable Bashville; Or, Constancy Unrewarded Being the Novel of Cashel Byron's Profession Done into a Stage Play in Three Acts and in Blank Verse, with a Note on Modern Prize Fighting by Bernard Shaw

male · anguished · 1:17 min

Murder! I would I had. Yon cannibal Hath forty thousand lives; and I have ta'en But thousands thirty-nine. I tell thee, Lydia, On the impenetrable sarcolobe That holds his seedling brain these fists have pounded By Shrewsb'ry clock an hour. This bruised grass And caked mud adhering to my form I have acquired in rolling on the sod Clinched in his grip. This scanty reefer coat For decency snatched up as fast I fled When the police arrived, belongs to Mellish. 'Tis all too short; hence my display of rib And forearm mother-naked. Be not wroth Because I seem to wink at you: by Heaven, 'Twas Paradise that plugged me in the eye Which I perforce keep closing. Pity me, My training wasted and my blows unpaid, Sans stakes, sans victory, sans everything I had hoped to win. Oh, I could sit me down And weep for bitterness. (LYDIA: Thou wretch, begone.) Begone!

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