Father Monologue from Wallenstein's Camp: A Play

From Wallenstein's Camp: A Play by Friedrich Schiller

male · defiant · 52 sec

They're born Bohemian knaves--the two-- Belonging to Terzky's carabineers, Who've lain in these quarters now for years; The worst are they of the worthless crew. Strutting, swaggering, proud and vain, They seem to think they may well disdain With the peasant a glass of his wine to drain But, soft--to the left o' the fire I see Three riflemen, who from the Tyrol should be Emmerick, come, boy, to them will we. Birds of this feather 'tis luck to find, Whose trim's so spruce, and their purse well lined. [They move towards the tent. SCENE II. The above--Sergeant-Major, Trumpeter, Hulan.

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