Von Eberkopf.
Witty, but a jest!
Peer.
[After a short silence, leaning on a chair and
assuming a dignified mien.]
Come, gentlemen, I think it best
We part before the last remains
Of friendship melt away like smoke.
Who nothing owns will lightly risk it.
When in the world one scarce commands
The strip of earth one's shadow covers,
One's born to serve as food for powder.
But when a man stands safely landed,
As I do, then his stake is greater.
Go you to Hellas. I will put you
Ashore, and arm you gratis too.
The more you eke the flames of strife,
The better will it serve my purpose.
Strike home for freedom and for right!
Fight! storm! make hell hot for the Turks;—
And gloriously end your days
Upon the Janissaries lances.—
But I—excuse me [Slaps his pocket.
I have cash,
And am myself, Sir Peter Gynt.[1]
[Puts up his sunshade, and goes into the
grove, where the hammocks are partly
visible.]
Trumpeterstråle.
The swinish cur!
Monsieur Ballon.
No taste for glory!
- ↑ So in original.
