It is my soul! it is my name! That mighty name, which throbs with guns and bells, Clashes and thunders, ceaselessly reproaches Against my languor with its bells and guns! Silence your tocsins and your salvos! Poison? What need of poison in the prison-house? I yearn to broaden history!--I am A pallid visage watching at a window. If I could only rid myself of doubt! You know me well! what do you think of me? Suppose I were what people say we are And what we often are, we great men's sons! Metternich feeds this doubt with frequent hints: He's right; it is his duty as an Austrian. I shiver when he opes the bonbonnière They call his wit, to find some honeyed venom. You! tell me honestly what is my worth? You know me; can I be an Emperor? From this pale brow may God withhold the crown Unless its pallor's that of Bonaparte! (PROKESCH: Prince--!) Answer me! Must I despise myself? Speak out! What am I? Are my wits too dull, And are my wrists too feeble for the sceptre? What do you think of me?

The Duke Monologue from L'Aiglon

Rehearse The Duke's monologue