The Death of Wallenstein. Friedrich von Schiller

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                      I had already

        Given the Bohemians a king.

                       They have one,

        In consequence, no doubt.

                      Ha! what new scruple?

        The duke will not.

                  He will not what he must!

        It lies with you now. Try. For I am silenced

        When folks begin to talk to me of conscience

        And of fidelity.

                 How? then, when all

        Lay in the far-off distance, when the road

        Stretched out before thine eyes interminably,

        Then hadst thou courage and resolve; and now,

        Now that the dream is being realized,

        The purpose ripe, the issue ascertained,

        Dost thou begin to play the dastard now?

        Planned merely, 'tis a common felony;

        Accomplished, an immortal undertaking:

        And with success comes pardon hand in hand,

        For all event is God's arbitrament.

        The Colonel Piccolomini.

                    – Must wait.

        I cannot see him now. Another time.

        But for two minutes he entreats an audience

        Of the most urgent nature is his business.

        Who knows what he may bring us! I will hear him.

        Urgent for him, no doubt? but thou may'st wait.

        What is it?

               Thou shalt be informed hereafter.

        First let the Swede and thee be compromised.

        If there were yet a choice! if yet some milder

        Way of escape were possible – I still

        Will choose it, and avoid the last extreme.

        Desirest thou nothing further? Such a way

        Lies still before thee. Send this Wrangel off.

        Forget thou thy old hopes, cast far away

        All thy past life; determine to commence

        A new one. Virtue hath her heroes too,

        As well as fame and fortune. To Vienna

        Hence – to the emperor – kneel before the throne;

        Take a full coffer with thee – say aloud,

        Thou didst but wish to prove thy fealty;

        Thy whole intention but to dupe the Swede.

        For that too 'tis too late. They know too much;

        He would but bear his own head to the block.

        I fear not that. They have not evidence

        To attaint him legally, and they avoid

        The avowal of an arbitrary power.

        They'll let the duke resign without disturbance.

        I see how all will end. The King of Hungary

        Makes his appearance, and 'twill of itself

        Be understood, and then the duke retires.

        There will not want a formal declaration.

        The young king will administer the oath

        To the whole army; and so all returns

        To the old position. On some morrow morning

        The duke departs; and now 'tis stir and bustle

        Within his castles. He will hunt and build;

        Superintend his horses' pedigrees,

        Creates himself a court, gives golden keys,

        And introduceth strictest ceremony

        In fine proportions, and nice etiquette;

        Keeps open table with high cheer: in brief,

        Commenceth mighty king – in miniature.

        And while he prudently demeans himself,

        And gives himself no actual importance,

        He will be let appear whate'er he likes:

        And who dares doubt, that Friedland will appear

        A mighty prince to his last dying hour?

        Well now, what then? Duke Friedland is as others,

        A fire-new noble, whom the war hath raised

        To price and currency, a Jonah's gourd,

        An over-night creation of court-favor,

        Which, with an undistinguishable ease,

        Makes baron or makes prince.

                       Take her away.

        Let in the young Count Piccolomini.

        Art thou in earnest? I entreat thee!

        Canst thou consent to bear thyself to thy own grave,

        So ignominiously to be dried up?

        Thy life, that arrogated such an height

        To end in such a nothing! To be nothing,

        When one was always nothing, is an evil

        That asks no stretch of patience, a light evil;

        But to become a nothing, having been —

        Show me a way out of this stifling crowd,

        Ye powers of aidance! Show me such a way

        As I am capable of going. I

        Am no tongue-hero, no fine virtue-prattler;

        I cannot warm by thinking; cannot say

        To the good luck that turns her back upon me

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