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Monologue

Fisher Monologue from Wilhelm Tell

From Wilhelm Tell by Friedrich Schiller

male · anguished · 42 sec

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Woe to the bark that now pursues its course, Rock'd in the cradle of these storm-tost waves! Nor helm nor steersman here can aught avail; The storm is master. Man is like a ball, Toss'd 'twixt the winds and billows. Far or near, No haven offers him its friendly shelter! Without one ledge to grasp, the sheer smooth rocks Look down inhospitably on his despair, And only tender him their flinty breasts. BOY (calling from above). Father, a ship: from Fluelen bearing down.

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