Mine is of harder stuff! Necessity In her rough school hath steel'd me. And this Illo, And Terzky likewise, they must not survive him.
I feel no pang for these. Their own bad hearts Impell'd them, not the influence of the stars. 'Twas they who strew'd the seeds of evil passions In his calm breast, and with officious villiany Water'd and nursed the pois'nous plants. May they Receive their earnests to the uttermost mite!
And their death shall precede his! We meant to have taken them alive this evening Amid the merry-making of a feast, And keep them prisoners in the citadel. But this makes shorter work. I go this instant To give the necessary orders.
Our luck is on the turn. Tomorrow come The Swedes--twelve thousand gallant warriors, Illo, Then straightwise for Vienna. Cheerily, friend! What! meet such news with such a moody face?
It lies with us at present to prescribe Laws, and take vengeance on those worthless traitors, Those skulking cowards that deserted us; One has already done his bitter penance, The Piccolomini: be his the fate Of all who wish us evil! This flies sure To the old man's heart; he has his whole life long Fretted and toil'd to raise his ancient house From a Count's title to the name of prince; And now must seek a grave for his only son.
'Twas pity, though! A youth of such heroic And gentle temperament! The Duke himself, 'Twas easily seen, how near it went to his heart.
Hark ye, old friend! That is the very point That never pleased me in our General-- He ever gave the preference to the Italians. Yea, at this very moment, by my soul! He'd gladly see us all dead ten times over, Could he thereby recall his friend to life.
Hush, hush! Let the dead rest! This evening's business Is, who can fairly drink the other down-- Your regiment, Illo! gives the entertainment. Come! we will keep a merry carnival-- The night for once be day, and 'mid full glasses Will we expect the Swedish avant-garde.
Yes, let us be of good cheer for today, For there's hot work before us, friends! This sword Shall have no rest, till it be bathed to the hilt In Austrian blood.
Shame, shame! what talk is this My Lord Field-Marshal? Wherefore foam you so Against your Emperor?
Hope not too much From this first victory. Bethink you, sirs! How rapidly the wheel of Fortune turns; The Emperor still is formidably strong.