How now, boy! the fellows wont eat us, though They may be a little unruly, or so. See, yonder, arriving a stranger train, Fresh comers are they from the Saal and Mayne; Much booty they bring of the rarest sort-- 'Tis ours, if we cleverly drive our sport. A captain, who fell by his comrade's sword, This pair of sure dice to me transferred; To-day I'll just give them a trial to see If their knack's as good as it used to be. You must play the part of a pitiful devil, For these roaring rogues, who so loosely revel, Are easily smoothed, and tricked, and flattered, And, free as it came, their gold is scattered. But we--since by bushels our all is taken, By spoonfuls must ladle it back again; And, if with their swords they slash so highly, We must look sharp, boy, and do them slyly. [Singing and shouting in the tent. Hark, how they shout! God help the day! 'Tis the peasant's hide for their sport must pay. Eight months in our beds and stalls have they Been swarming here, until far around Not a bird or a beast is longer found, And the peasant, to quiet his craving maw, Has nothing now left but his bones to gnaw. Ne'er were we crushed with a heavier hand, When the Saxon was lording it o'er the land: And these are the Emperor's troops, they say!

Father Monologue from Wallenstein's Camp: A Play

Rehearse Father's monologue