Monologue

Mary Beaton Monologue from Chastelard, a Tragedy

From Chastelard, a Tragedy by Algernon Charles Swinburne

female · anguished · 45 sec

Nay, but, madam, For God's love look a little to this thing. If you do slay him you are but shamed to death; All men will cry upon you, women weep, Turning your sweet name bitter with their tears; Red shame grow up out of your memory And burn his face that would speak well of you: You shall have no good word nor pity, none, Till some such end be fallen upon you: nay, I am but cold, I knew I had no words, I will keep silence.

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