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THE PAINTER OF HIS OWN DISHONOUR Essay

A monologue from the play by Pedro Calderon de la Barca

NOTE: This monologue is reprinted from Eight Dramas of Calderon. Trans. Edward Fitzgerald. London: Macmillan & Co., 1906.

SERAFINA: Poor argument! I rather draw that he
Who ventures on such desperate acts can have
No true respect for her he outrages,
And therefore no true love. No, daring traitor–
But I’ll not strive to break the heart of flint,
But wear it with my tears. Hear me, Alvaro,
In pity–in mercy–hear me.
This thing is done, there is no remedy,
Let us not waste the time in arguing
What better had been done; the stars so ruled it–
Yea, providence that rules the stars. Well then,
What next? Alvaro, I would speak of this;
And if’t be right I owe you any thing,
Be it for this one boon, a patient hearing.
Listen to me–
I never draw a breath but ’tis on fire
With Juan’s vengeance; never move a step
But think I see his fierce eyes glaring at me
From some dark corner of this desolate house
In which my youth is buried. And what gain you
By all this crime and misery? My body,
But not my soul; without possessing which,
Beauty itself is but a breathing corpse,
But a cold marble statue, unsuffused
With the responsive hue of sympathy,
Possess’d but not enjoy’d.
Oh, ill betide that villain love, not love,
That all its object and affection finds
In the mere contact of encircling arms!
But if this move you not–consider, Alvaro–
Don Juan is a nobleman–as such
Bound to avenge his honour; he must know
‘Twas you who did this monstrous act, for Flora
Would tell him all. There is one remedy:
‘Tis this, that you, despairing of my love,
Which you can never gain–forego me quite,
And give me up to some cold convent’s cloister,
Where buried I may wear away–

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THE PAINTER OF HIS OWN DISHONOUR Essay
Artscolumbia
Artscolumbia
A monologue from the play by Pedro Calderon de la Barca NOTE: This monologue is reprinted from Eight Dramas of Calderon. Trans. Edward Fitzgerald. London: Macmillan & Co., 1906. SERAFINA: Poor argument! I rather draw that he
Who ventures on such desperate acts can have
No true respect for her he outrages,
And therefore no true love. No, daring traitor--
But I'll not strive to break the heart of flint,
But wear it with my tears. Hear me, Alvaro,
In pi
2021-07-13 12:18:25
THE PAINTER OF HIS OWN DISHONOUR Essay
$ 13.900 2018-12-31
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