Don Carlos. Friedrich von Schiller

         The Omniscient be my judge! You till this hour

         Have still debarred me from your heart, and all

         Participation in your royal cares.

         The heir of Spain has been a very stranger

         In Spanish land – a prisoner in the realm

         Where he must one day rule. Say, was this just,

         Or kind? And often have I blushed for shame,

         And stood with eyes abashed, to learn perchance

         From foreign envoys, or the general rumor,

         Thy courtly doings at Aranjuez.

         Thy blood flows far too hotly in thy veins.

         Thou would'st but ruin all.

                        But try me, father.

         'Tis true my blood flows hotly in my veins.

         Full three-and-twenty years I now have lived,

         And naught achieved for immortality.

         I am aroused – I feel my inward powers —

         My title to the throne arouses me

         From slumber, like an angry creditor;

         And all the misspent hours of early youth,

         Like debts of honor, clamor in mine ears.

         It comes at length, the glorious moment comes

         That claims full interest on the intrusted talent.

         The annals of the world, ancestral fame,

         And glory's echoing trumpet urge me on.

         Now is the blessed hour at length arrived

         That opens wide to me the list of honor.

         My king, my father! dare I utter now

         The suit which led me hither?

                         Still a suit?

         Unfold it.

               The rebellion in Brabant

         Increases to a height – the traitor's madness

         By stern, but prudent, vigor must be met.

         The duke, to quell the wild enthusiasm,

         Invested with the sovereign's power, will lead

         An army into Flanders. Oh, how full

         Of glory is such office! and how suited

         To open wide the temple of renown

         To me, your son! To my hand, then, O king,

         Intrust the army; in thy Flemish lands

         I am well loved, and I will freely gage

         My life for their fidelity and truth.

         Thou speakest like a dreamer. This high office

         Demands a man – and not a stripling's arm.

         It but demands a human being, father:

         And that is what Duke Alva ne'er hath been.

         Terror alone can tie rebellion's hands:

         Humanity were madness. Thy soft soul

         Is tender, son: they'll tremble at the duke.

         Desist from thy request.

                      Despatch me, sire,

         To Flanders with the army – dare rely

         E'en on my tender soul. The name of prince,

         The royal name emblazoned on my standard,

         Conquers where Alva's butchers but dismay.

         Here on my knees I crave it – this the first

         Petition of my life. Trust Flanders to me.

         Trust my best army to thy thirst for rule,

         And put a dagger in my murderer's hand!

         Great God! and is this all – is this the fruit

         Of a momentous hour so long desired!

         Oh, speak to me more kindly – send me not

         Thus comfortless away – dismiss me not

         With this afflicting answer, oh, my father!

         Use me more tenderly, indeed, I need it.

         This is the last resource of wild despair —

         It conquers every power of firm resolve

         To beat it as a man – this deep contempt —

         My every suit denied: Let me away —

         Unheard and foiled in all my fondest hopes,

         I take my leave. Now Alva and Domingo

         May proudly sit in triumph where your son

         Lies weeping in the dust. Your crowd of courtiers,

         And your long train of cringing, trembling nobles,

         Your tribe of sallow monks, so deadly pale,

         All witnessed how you granted me this audience.

         Let me not be disgraced. Oh, strike me not

         With this most deadly wound – nor lay me bare

         To sneering insolence of menial taunts!

         "That strangers riot on your bounty, whilst

         Carlos, your son, may supplicate in vain."

         And as a pledge that you would have me honored,

         Despatch me straight to Flanders with the army.

         Urge thy request no farther – as thou wouldst

         Avoid the king's displeasure.

                         I must brave

         My king's displeasure, and prefer my suit

         Once more, it is the last. Trust Flanders to me!

         I must away from Spain. To linger here

         Is to draw breath beneath the headsman's axe:

         The air lies heavy on me in Madrid

         Like murder on a guilty soul – a change,

         An instant change of clime alone can cure me.

         If you would save my life, despatch me straight