Casting Calls & Auditions

Sample monologues for womens parts. Monologues are important to actors auditioning for roles… here are a few classic monologues for female parts.

The following are reprints of famous female monologues for actors

Dramatic monologues for ladies

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ANDROMACHE: Hear, that with pleasure I may touch thy soul
Not to be born, I argue, and to die,
Are equal: but to die is better far
Than to live wretched; for he knows not grief
Who hath no sense of misery: but to fall
From fortune’s blessed height, to the low state
Of abject wretchedness, distracts the soul
With the keen sense of former happiness.
Like as the light of life she ne’er had seen,
Polyxena is dead, and of her ills
Knows nothing: I, who aimed at glorious rank,
And reached my aim, from fortune widely erred:
All that to prudent matrons gives a grace,
In Hector’s house was ever my employ.
First, for in this to women blame is due,
Charged or not charged, to such as rove abroad,
I checked this wand’ring humour, and remained
At home, within my house; nor gay discourse
Of females there admitted, but intent
On ordering what was useful, deemed myself
Well occupied. With silence of the tongue
And cheerfulness of look I entertained
My husband: where my province to command
I knew, and where to yield obedience to him.
The fame of this was bruited through the host
Of Greece, and wrought my ruin; for the son
Of fierce Achilles, soon as I was made
A captive, wished to take me as his wife,
Doomed in the house of those, whose slaught’ring hands
I rue, to be a slave. From my fond heart
Could I rend Hector, and expand my breast
To this new husband, faithless to the dead
Should I appear: if I disdain his love,
I shall excite the malice of my lords.
Short time, they say, to a new lord disarms
A woman’s hate: but her my soul abhors,
Who for new nuptials slights her former husband,
And loves another: e’en the social steed,
Divided from its fellow, draws the yoke
Reluctant; yet the beast, by nature formed
Less excellent, nor speech nor reason knows.
O my loved Hector, I was blest in thee,
Thou was the lord of all my wishes, great
In understanding, noble birth, and wealth,
And valour: from my father’s house thou first
Ledd’st me a virgin to the bridal bed:
Now thou are perished, and I mount the bark
For Greece, a captive to the servile yoke.
Hath not the death then of Polyxena,
Whom thou bewailest, lighter ills than mine!
For not to me e’en Hope, which still is left
To all of mortal race, remains; no thought
That better fortune e’er will visit me
With pleasing expectation cheats my mind.
Credits: Reprinted from The Plays of Euripides in English, vol. i. Trans. Shelley Dean Milman. London: J.M. Dent & Sons, 1920.
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Monologues for Woman – Drama
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CLYTEMNESTRA: Though much to suit the times before was said,
It shames me not the opposite to speak:
For, plotting against foes,–our seeming friends,–
How else contrive with Ruin’s wily snare,
Too high to overleap, to fence them round?
To me, not mindless of an ancient feud,
Hath come at last this contest;–late indeed.
The deed achieved, here stand I, where I slew.
So was it wrought (and this I’ll not deny),
That he could neither ’scape, nor ward his doom;
Around him, like a fish-encircling net,
This garment’s deadly splendour did I cast;–
Him twice I smote, and he, with twofold groan,
His limbs relaxed;–then, prostrate where he lay,
Him with third blow I dowered, votive gift
To nether Hades, saviour of the dead.
Thus as he fell he chafed his soul away;
And gurgling forth the swift death-tide of blood,
He smites me with black drops of gory dew,
Not less exultant than, with heaven-sent joy
The corn-sown land, in birth-hour of the ear.
For this great issue, Argive Senators,
Joy ye, if joy ye can, but I exult.
Nay, o’er the slain were off’rings meet,–with right
Here were they poured,–with emphasis of right.
Such goblets having filled with cursed ills
At home,–himself on his return drains off.
Me thou dost doom to exile,–to endure
The people’s hate, their curse deep-muttered,–thou,
Who ‘gainst this man of yore hadst naught to urge.
He, all unmoved, as though brute life he quenched,
The while his fleecy pastures teem’d with flocks,
His own child slaughtered,–of my travail throes
To me the dearest,–charm for Thracian blasts.
Him shouldst thou not have chased from land and home
Just guerdon for foul deed? Stern judge thou art
When me thou dost arraign;–but, mark my words,
(Nerved as I am to threat on equal terms,)
If with strong hand ye conquer me, then rule;–
But should the god decree the opposite,
Though late, to sober sense shalt thou be schooled.
Credits: Reprinted from The Dramas of Aeschylus. Trans. Anna Swanwick. London: George Bell and Sons, 1907..

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ANTIGONE: Tomb, bridal chamber, eternal prison in the caverned rock, whither I go to find mine own, those many who have perished, and whom Persephone hath received among the dead! Last of all shall I pass thither, and far most miserably of all, before the term of my life is spent. But I cherish good hope that my coming will be welcome to my father, and pleasant to thee, my mother, and welcome, brother, to thee; for, when you died, with mine own hands I washed and dressed you, and poured drink-offerings at your graves; and now, Plyneices, ’tis for tending thy corpse that I win such recompense as this. And yet I honoured thee, as the wise will deem, rightly. Never had I been a mother of children, or if a husband had been mouldering in death, would I have taken this task upon me in the city’s despite. What law, ye ask, is my warrant for that word? The husband lost, another might have been found, and child from another, to replace the first-born; but, father and mother hidden with Hades, no brother’s life could ever bloom for me again. Such was the law whereby I held thee first in honour; but Creon deemed me guilty of error therein, and of outrage, ah brother mine! And now he leads me thus, a captive in his hands; no bridal bed, no bridal song hath been mine, no joy of marriage, no portion in the nurture of children; but thus, forlorn of friends, unhappy one, I go living to the vaults of death. And what law of Heaven have I transgressed? Why, hapless one, should I look to the gods any more–what ally should I invoke–when by piety I have earned the name of impious? Nay, then, if these things are pleasing to the gods, when I have suffered my doom, I shall come to know my sin; but if the sin is with my judges, I could wish them no fuller measue of evil than they, on their part, mete wrongfully to me.

Credits: Reprinted from Greek Dramas. Ed. Bernadotte Perrin. New York: D. Appleton and Company, 1904.
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MRS. PRINGLE: I shall go mad! I’ll never entertain again–never–never–people ought to know whether they’re coming or not–but they accept and regret and regret and accept–they drive me wild. This is my last dinner party–my very last–a fiasco–an utter fiasco! A haphazard crowd–hurried together–when I had planned everything so beautifully–now how shall I seat them–how shall I seat them? If I put Mr. Tupper here and Mrs. Conley there then Mrs. Tupper has to sit next to her husband and if I want Mr. Morgan there–Oh! It’s impossible–I might as well put their names in a hat and draw them out at random–never again! I’m through! Through with society–with parties–with friends–I wipe my slate clean–they’ll miss my entertainments–they’ll wish they had been more considerate–after this, I’m going to live for myself! I’m going to be selfish and hard–and unsociable–and drink my liquor myself instead of offering it gratis to the whole town!–I’m through–Through with men like Oliver Farnsworth!–I don’t care how rich they are! How influential they are–how important they are! They’re nothing without courtesy and consideration–business–off on train–nonsense–didn’t want to come–didn’t want to meet a sweet, pretty girl–didn’t want to marry her–well, he’s not good enough for you!–don’t you marry him! Don’t you dare marry him! I won’t let you marry him! Do you hear? If you tried to elope or anything like that, I’d break it off–yes, I would–Oliver Farnsworth will never get recognition from me!–He is beneath my notice! I hate Oliver Farnsworth!
Credits: Reprinted from Ten One-Act Plays. Alice Gerstenberg. New York: Brentano’s, 1921
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EVE: We are getting along very well now, Adam and I, and getting better and better acquainted. He does not try to avoid me any more, which is a good sign, and shows that he likes to have me with him. That pleases me, and I study to be useful to him in every way I can, so as to increase his regard. During the last day or two I have taken all the work of naming things off his hands, and this has been a great relief to him, for he has no gift in that line, and is evidently very grateful. He can’t think of a rational name to save him, but I do not let him see that I am aware of his defect. Whenever a new creature comes along I name it before he has time to expose himself by an awkward silence. In this way I have saved him many embarrassments. I have no defect like this. The minute I set eyes on an animal I know what it is. I don’t have to reflect a moment; the right name comes out instantly, just as if it were an inspiration, as no doubt it is, for I am sure it wasn’t in me half a minute before. I seem to know just by the shape of the creature and the way it acts what animal it is. When the dodo came along he thought it was a wildcat–I saw it in his eye. But I saved him. And I was careful not to do it in a way that could hurt his pride. I just spoke up in a quite natural way of pleasing surprise, and not as if I was dreaming of conveying information, and said, “Well, I do declare, if there isn’t the dodo!” I explained–without seeming to be explaining–how I know it for a dodo, and although I thought maybe he was a little piqued that I knew the creature when he didn’t, it was quite evident that he admired me. That was very agreeable, and I thought of it more than once with gratification before I slept. How little a thing can make us happy when we feel that we have earned it!

Credits: Reprinted from Eve’s Diary. Mark Twain. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1906.

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GWEN: Look what I brought. Surprise! A picnic! They said they’d let me bring this in. Look! A pic-a-nic basket. Like Yogi Bear! Eh? Boo-boo? Let me just set this up, EVEN though I know you can’t eat, I just thought it would be nice to take us back… oh, here they come. Well of course I know he can’t accept it, there’s a window between us duh! How’s he supposed to eat anything in that straight jacket thing anyway? Geez, cops sure are stupid. Oh damn I busted the crackers —now just get back over there officer Fratello, he ain’t goin’ no where!

Now. So I thought we’d have a little picnic just like we did on our first date, up in the park? Ya know, by that first girl they found, down by the river? Well of course you remember. A little cheese, salami, French bread, this is that good French bread, it’s from Safeway. And this is the coup de gracie. (pulls out bottle of wine)

Hm? It’s a merlot. Like… like we used to have. Like blood huh? That’s why the Christian’s drink it. ‘Cause Jesus gave his blood at the Last Supper. Cistercians and Benedictines grew grapes for wine in the middle-ages for the mass. Yeah, I’ve been doing some research. Proud of me? Now I see your eyes. No this was my idea, not the cops.

Look bear, you know, you know what they’re saying? Not the papers. Them. These detectives. Oh poop-bear… they’re saying you ate those girls. Ate them. They saw bite marks on… the bones. I told them that it must have been a critter or somethin’, a wolf, a bear or… but they said the marks, the in-den-ta-tions match your teeth. Now I need to know. I need to know now. You’re all I know, you’re the only person I can believe. No more secrets because…

The news is all sayin’ these girls had merlot in their stomachs and well, a heck of a lot of people drink merlot, so my boyfriend drinks merlot, and then sometimes I wash some blood out of his shirts, but that’s from the hunting trip he says and that’s what all that cured meat in the basement is, just deer meat, venison you say, and all this doesn’t mean my boyfriend is a serial killer, it doesn’t mean anything, none of it means anything, he just has a little problem, but eating? Eating women hon?! And don’t tell me I should be happy in a way because you didn’t have sex with them, that’s what one of those cops said, the little shit, but damn poop-bear I’d give anything at this point to just have a two timing philandering son-of-a-bitch. A cheater, why couldn’t you just cheat hon? A DUI! Holding up an AM/PM?! Why’s it gotta be eating human flesh?

Credits: All inquiries should be directed to the author at: nickzagone@mac.com

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SHE: I know you hate me. You have a right to. Not just because I was faithless–but because I was cruel. I don’t want to excuse myself–but I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t realize I was hurting you. Yes. I’ve said that before. And you’ve answered me that that excuse might hold for the first time, but not for the second and the third. You’ve convicted me of deliberate cruelty on that. And I’ve never had anything to say. I couldn’t say anything, because the truth was … too preposterous. It wasn’t any use telling it before. But now I want you to know the real reason. Something I’ve never confessed to you. Yes. It is true that I was cruel to you–deliberately. I did want to hurt you. And do you know why? I wanted to shatter that Olympian serenity of yours. You were too strong, too self-confident. You had the air of a being that nothing could hurt. You were like a god. You are still Olympian. And I still hate you for it. I wish I could make you suffer now. But I have lost my power to do that. You sit there–making phrases. Oh, I have hurt you a little; but you will recover. You always recovered quickly. You are not human. If you were human, you would remember that we once were happy, and be a little sorry that all that is over. But you can’t be sorry. You have made up your mind, and can think of nothing but that. do you remember when we fell in love? No–it happened to me. It didn’t happen to you. You made up your mind and walked in, with the air of a god on a holiday. It was I who fell–headlong, dizzy, blind. I didn’t want to love you. It was a force too strong for me. It swept me into your arms. I prayed against it. I had to give myself to you, even though I knew you hardly cared. I had to–for my heart was no longer in my own breast. It was in your hands, to do what you liked with. You could have thrown it in the dust. It pleased you not to. You put it in your pocket. But don’t you realize what it is to feel that another person has absolute power over you? No, for you have never felt that way. You have never been utterly dependent on another person for happiness. I was utterly dependent on you. It humiliated me, angered me. I rebelled against it, but it was no use. I was in love with you. And you were free, and your heart was your own, and nobody could hurt you. When I found out that I could hurt you, I could hardly believe it. It wasn’t possible. Why, you had said a thousand times that you would not be jealous if I were in love with some one else, too. It was you who put the idea in my head. It seemed a part of your super-humanness. And the moment I first realized that it might be hurting you–that you were human after all–I stopped. You know I stopped. Can’t you understand? I stopped because I thought you were a person like myself, suffering like myself. It wasn’t easy to stop. It tore me to pieces. But I suffered rather than let you suffer. And then when I saw you recover your serenity in a day while the love that I had struck down in my heart for your sake cried out in a death agony for months, I felt again that you were superior, inhuman–and I hated you for it. And when the next time came, I wanted to see if it was real, this godlike serenity of yours. I wanted to tear off the mask. I wanted to see you suffer as I had suffered. And that is why I was cruel to you the second time. And the third. There will be no more joy or pain of love for me. You do not believe that. But that part of me which loves is dead. Do you think I have come through all this unhurt? No. I cannot hope any more, I cannot believe. There is nothing left for me. All I have left is regret for the happiness that you and I have spoiled between us … Oh, why did you ever teach me your Olympian philosophy? Why did you make me think that we were gods and could do whatever we chose? If we had realized that we were only weak human beings, we might have saved our happiness!

Credits: Reprinted from King Arthur’s Socks and Other Village Plays. Floyd Dell. New York: Alfred Knopf, 1922.

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Monologue from Faust 1898

MARGARET: Thou wilt unloose my chain,
And in thy lap wilt take me once again.
How comes it that thou dost not shrink from me?–
Say, dost thou know, my friend, whom thou mak’st free?
My mother have I put to death;
I’ve drowned the baby born to thee.
Was it not given to thee and me?
Thee, too!–’Tis thou! It scarcely true doth seem–
Give me thy hand! ‘Tis not a dream!
Thy dear, dear hand!–But, ah, ’tis wet!
Why, wipe it off! Methinks that yet
There’s blood thereon.
Ah, God! what hast thou done?
Nay, sheathe thy sword!
Thou must outlive us.

Now I’ll tell thee the graves to give us:
Thou must begin to-morrow
The work of sorrow!
The best place give to my mother,
Then close at her side my brother,
And me a little away,
But not too very far, I pray!
And here, on my right breast, my baby lay!
Nobody else will lie beside me!–
Ah, within thine arms to hide me,
That was a sweet and a gracious bliss,
But no more, no more can I attain it!
I would force myself on thee and constrain it,
And it seems thou repellest my kiss:
And yet ’tis thou, so good, so kind to see!

If the grave is there,
Death lying in wait, then come!
From here to eternal rest:
No further step–no, no!
Thou goest away! O Henry, if I could go!

But I dare not: there’s no hope any more.
Why should I fly? They’ll still my steps waylay!
It is so wretched, forced to beg my living,
And a bad conscience sharper misery giving!
It is so wretched, to be strange, forsaken,
And I’d still be followed and taken!

Be quick! Be quick!
Save thy perishing child!
Away! Follow the ridge
Up by the brook,
Over the bridge,
Into the wood,
To the left, where the plank is placed
In the pool!
Seize it in haste!
‘Tis trying to rise,
‘Tis struggling still!
Save it! Save it!

No–let me go! I’ll suffer no force!
Grasp me not so murderously!
I’ve done, else, all things for the love of thee.

Yes, the day comes,–the last day breaks for me!
My wedding day it was to be!
Tell no one thou has been with Margaret!
Woe for my garland! The chances
Are over–’tis all in vain!
We shall meet once again,
But not at the dances!
The crowd is thronging, no word is spoken:
The square below
And the streets overflow:
The death-bell tolls, the wand is broken.
I am seized, and bound, and delivered–
Shoved to the block–they give the sign!
Now over each neck has quivered
The blade that is quivering over mine.
Dumb lies the world like the grave!
Credits: Reprinted from Faust. Trans. Bayard Taylor. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1898.

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ELIZABETH: I am the cousin of the unhappy child who was murdered, or rather his sister, for I was educated by, and have lived with his parents ever since and even long before his birth. It may, therefore, be judged indecent in me to come forward on this occasion. But when I see a fellow-creature about to perish through the cowardice of her pretended friends, I wish to be allowed to speak, that I may say what I know of her character. I am well acquainted with the accused. I have lived in the same house with her, at one time for five and at another for nearly two years. During all that period she appeared to me the most amiable and benevolent of human creatures. She nursed Madame Frankenstein, my aunt, in her last illness, with the greatest affection and care. And afterward attended her own mother during a tedious illness, in a manner that excited the admiration of all who knew her, after which she again lived in my uncle’s house, where she was beloved by all the family. She was warmly attached to the child who is now dead, and acted toward him like a most affectionate mother. For my own part, I do not hesitate to say that, notwithstanding all the evidence produced against her, I believe and rely on her perfect innocence. She had no temptation for such an action. As to the bauble on which the chief proof rests, if she had earnestly desired it, I should have willingly given it to her, so much do I esteem and value her.

Credits: Reprinted from Frankenstein. Mary Shelley. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea and Blanchard, 1833.

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CLARE: My nerves have gone funny lately. It’s being always on one’s guard, and stuffy air, and feeling people look and talk about you, and dislike you being there. I curl up all the time. The only thing I know for certain is, that I shall never go back to him. The more I’ve hated what I’ve been doing, the more sure I’ve been. I might come to anything–but not that. I’m spoilt. It’s a curse to be a lady when you have to earn your living. It’s not really been so hard, I suppose; I’ve been selling things, and living about twice as well as most shop girls. Lots of the girls are really nice. But somehow they don’t want me, can’t help thinking I’ve got airs or something; and in here [She touches her breast] I don’t want them! [Pause] Mrs. Fullarton and I used to belong to a society for helping reduced gentlewomen to get work. I know now what they want: enough money not to work–that’s all! Don’t think me worse than I am–please! It’s working under people; it’s having to do it, being driven. I have tried, I’ve not been altogether a coward, really! But every morning getting there the same time; every day the same stale “dinner,” as they call it; every evening the same “Good evening, Miss Clare,” “Good evening, Miss Simpson,” “Good evening, Miss Hart,” “Good evening, Miss Clare.” And the same walk home, or the same bus; and the same men that you mustn’t look at, for fear they’ll follow you. Oh! and the feeling–always, always–that there’s no sun, or life, or hope, or anything. It was just like being ill, the way I’ve wanted to ride and dance and get out into the country. [Her excitement dies away into the old clipped composure] Don’t think too badly of me–it really is pretty ghastly!
Credits: Reprinted from The Fugitive: A Play in Four Acts. John Galsworthy. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1913.

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IO: I know not how I can deny your wish,
So in clear word all ye desire to know
That shall ye hear;–Yet am I ashamed to tell
Wherefore on me, forlorn one, burst the storm
Heaven-sent and whence this form’s disfigurement.
For evermore would nightly visions haunt
My virgin chambers, gently urging me
With soothing words;–”O damsel, highly blest,
Why longer live in maidenhood when thee
Wait loftiest nuptials? For by passion’s dart
Inflamed is Zeus for thee and fain would share
The yoke of Kypris. Spurn not thou, O child,
The couch of Zeus, but to the grassy mead
Of Lerna hie thee, to thy father’s herds
And cattle-stalls, that so the eye of Zeus
From longing may find respite.” By such dreams
From night to night still was I visited,
Unhappy one; till, taking heart at length,
My night-born visions to my sire I told.
Then he to Pytho made a herald sent
And to Dodona; seeking to be taught
How best, by deed or word, to please the gods.
But they returned, announcing oracles
Of riddling import, vague and hard to spell.
At length to Inachos came clear response,
By voice oracular commanding him
From home and father-land to thrust me forth,
At large to range, as consecrate to heaven,
Far as earth’s utmost bounds. Should he refuse,
From Zeus would come the fiery thunderbold,
And his whole race extirpate utterly.
Then yielding to such Loxian Oracles,
He drove me forth, and barred me from his home,
Against his will and mine; but, forcefully,
The curb of Zeus constrained him this to do.
Forthwith my shape and mind distorted were,
And horned, as ye behold me, goaded on
By gad-fly, keen of fang, with frenzied bounds
I to Kerchneias’ limpid current rush’d,
And found of Lerna. Then the earth-born herdsman,
Hot-tempered Argos, ever dogged my steps,
Gazing upon me with his myriad eyes.
But him a sudden and unlooked-for fate
Did reave of life; but I, brize-tortured, still
Before the scorge divine am driven on
From land to land; the past thou hearest; now
If thou canst tell my future toils, say on,
Nor, pity-moved, soothe me with lying tales,
For garbled words, I hold, are basest ills.
Credits: Reprinted from The Dramas of Aeschylus. Trans. Anna Swanwick. London: George Bell and Sons, 1907.

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OCTAVIA: Though I should endure what must be borne, ne’er could my woes be ended, save by gloomy death. With my mother slain, my father by crime snatched from me, robbed of my brother, by wretchedness and grief o’erwhelmed, by sorrow crushed, by my husband hated, and set beneath my slave, the sweet light brings no joy to me; for my heart is ever trembling, not with the fear of death, but of crime — be crime but lacking to my misfortunes, death will be delight. For ’tis a punishment far worse than death to look in the tyrant’s face, all swollen with rage ‘gainst wretched me, to kiss my foe, to fear his very nod, obedience to whom my smarting grief could not endure after my brother’s death, most sinfully destroyed, whose throne he usurps, and rejoices in being the worker of a death unspeakable. How oft does my brother’s sad shade appear before my eyes when rest has relaxed my body, and sleep weighed down my eyes, weary with weeping. Now with smoking torches he arms his feeble hands, and with deadly purpose aims at his brother’s eyes and face; and now in trembling fright takes refuge in my chamber; his enemy pursues and, e’en while the lad clings in my embrace, savagely he thrusts his sword through both our bodies. Then trembling and mighty terror banish my slumbers, and bring back to my wretched heart its grief and fear. Add to all this the proud concubine, bedecked with our house’s spoil, as gift for whom the son set his own mother on the Stygian bark; and, when she had o’ercome dread shipwreck and the sea, himself more pitiless than ocean’s waves, slew her with the sword. What hope of safety, after crimes so great, have I? My victorious foe threatens my chamber, blazes with hate of me, and, as the reward of her adultery, demands of my husband his lawful consort’s head. Arise thou, my father, from the shades and bring help to thy daughter who calls on thee; or else, rending the earth, lay bare the Stygian abyss, that I may plunge thither headlong.

Credits: Reprinted from Seneca’s Tragedy, v. ii. Trans. Frank Justus Miller. New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1917.

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SONYA: What can we do? We must live out our lives. [A pause] Yes, we shall live, Uncle Vanya. We shall live all through the endless procession of days ahead of us, and through the long evenings. We shall bear patiently the burdens that fate imposes on us. We shall work without rest for others, both now and when we are old. And when our final hour comes, we shall meet it humbly, and there beyond the grave, we shall say that we have known suffering and tears, that our life was bitter. And God will pity us. Ah, then, dear, dear Uncle, we shall enter on a bright and beautiful life. We shall rejoice and look back upon our grief here. A tender smile — and — we shall rest. I have faith, Uncle, fervent, passionate faith. We shall rest. We shall rest. We shall hear the angels. We shall see heaven shining like a jewel. We shall see evil and all our pain disappear in the great pity that shall enfold the world. Our life will be as peaceful and gentle and sweet as a caress. I have faith; I have faith. [Wiping away her tears] My poor, poor Uncle Vanya, you are crying! [Weeping] You have never known what it is to be happy, but wait, Uncle Vanya, wait! We shall rest. We shall rest. We shall rest.

Credits: Reprinted from The Moscow Arts Theatre Series of Plays. Ed. Oliver M. Sayler. New York: Brentanos, 1922.

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Lord Byron

MARINA: That’s false! A truer, nobler, trustier heart,
More loving, or more loyal, never beat
Within a human breast. I would not change
My exiled, persecuted, mangled husband,
Oppress’d but not disgraced, crush’d, overwhelm’d,
Alive, or dead, for prince or paladin
In story or in fable, with a world
To back his suit. Dishonour’d!—he dishonour’d!
I tell thee, Doge, ’tis Venice is dishonour’d;
His name shall be her foulest, worst reproach,
For what he suffers, not for what he did.
‘Tis ye who are all traitors, tyrant!—ye!
Did you but love your country like this victim
Who totters back in chains to tortures, and
Submits to all things rather than to exile,
You’d fling yourselves before him, and implore
His grace for your enormous guilt.
Credits: Reprinted from Lord Byron: Six Plays. Lord Byron. Los Angeles: Black Box Press, 2007.