The soldier his worth must understand; Whoe'er doesn't nobly drive the trade, 'Twere best from the business far he'd stayed. If I cheerily set my life on a throw, Something still better than life I'll know; Or I'll stand to be slain for the paltry pelf, As the Croat still does--and scorn myself. (BOTH PAGERS: Yes--honor is dearer than life itself.) The sword is no plough, nor delving tool, He, who would till with it, is but a fool. For us, neither grass nor grain doth grow, Houseless the soldier is doomed to go, A changeful wanderer over the earth, Ne'er knowing the warmth of a home-lit hearth. The city glances--he halts--not there-- Nor in village meadows, so green and fair; The vintage and harvest wreath are twined He sees, but must leave them far behind. Then, tell me, what hath the soldier left, If he's once of his self-esteem bereft? Something he must have his own to call, Or on slaughter and burnings at once he'll fall. (FIRST ARQUEBUSIER: God knows, 'tis a wretched life to live!) Yet one, which I, for no other would give, Look ye--far round in the world I've been, And all of its different service seen. The Venetian Republic--the Kings of Spain And Naples I've served, and served in vain. Fortune still frowned--and merchant and knight, Craftsmen and Jesuit, have met my sight; Yet, of all their jackets, not one have I known To please me like this steel coat of my own.

First Cuirassier Monologue from Wallenstein's Camp: A Play

Rehearse First Cuirassier's monologue