A Florentine Tragedy Monologue
| A Florentine Tragedy Monologue by Oscar Wilde | |
| Character: | Simone |
| Gender: | Male |
| Age (range): | ? |
| Style: | Drama |
| Length: | < 3 minutes |
Looking for a published monologue? Want to know
character history & story background? We have exactly what you
need! Join Our Community
today and gain access to dozens of monologues for auditions,
classes, competitions, workshops, and more! Click
To See What The Buzz Is About... |
|
- SIMONE: Well, well, so be it.
- I would have wished for fuller converse with you,
- My new friend, my honourable guest,
- But that it seems may not be.
- And besides,
- I do not doubt your father waits for you,
- Wearying for voice or footstep. You, I think,
- Are his one child? He has no other child.
- You are the gracious pillar of his house,
- The flower of a garden full of weeds.
- Your father's nephews do not love him well.
- So run folk's tongues in Florence. I meant but that;
- Men say they envy your inheritance
- And look upon your vineyard with fierce eyes
- As Ahab looked on Naboth's goodly field.
- But that is but the chatter of a town
- Where women talk too much.
- Good night, my lord,
- Fetch a pine torch, Bianca. The old staircase
- Is full of pitfalls, and the churlish moon
- Grows, like a miser, niggard of her beams,
- And hides her face behind a muslin mask
- As harlots do when they go forth to snare
- Some wretched soul in sin. Now, I will get
- Your cloak and sword. Nay, pardon, my good Lord,
- It is but meet that I should wait on you
- Who have so honoured my poor burgher's house,
- Drunk of my wine, and broken bread, and made
- Yourself a sweet familiar. Oftentimes
- My wife and I will talk of this fair night
- And its great issues.
- Why, what a sword is this!
- Ferrara's temper, pliant as a snake,
- And deadlier, I doubt not. With such steel
- One need fear nothing in the moil of life.
- I never touched so delicate a blade.
- I have a sword too, somewhat rusted now.
- We men of peace are taught humility,
- And to bear many burdens on our backs,
- And not to murmur at an unjust world,
- And to endure unjust indignities.
- We are taught that, and like the patient Jew
- Find profit in our pain.
- Yet I remember
- How once upon the road to Padua
- A robber sought to take my pack-horse from me,
- I slit his throat and left him. I can bear
- Dishonour, public insult, many shames,
- Shrill scorn, and open contumely, but he
- Who filches from me something that is mine,
- Ay! though it be the meanest trencher-plate
- From which I feed mine appetite--oh! he
- Perils his soul and body in the theft
- And dies for his small sin. From what strange clay
- We men are molded!
- I would have wished for fuller converse with you,
Credits: Reprinted from Salome; La Sainte Courtisane; A Florentine tragedy. Oscar Wilde. London; Methuen; 1909
