Tannhauser.
Will they answer you ?
My arm is weary as your souls are not
Of beastliness :
I have drawn my father's sword,
Hard as your virtue is the easy sort,
Heavy to handle as your loves are light,
Smooth as your lies,
and sharper than your hates
!
I know you !
Cowards
to the very bone !
[^Driving them out.
Who fights me, of this sworded company ?
Cannot my words have sting in them enough,
Now,
to make one of you turn suddenly
And stab me from behind ?
Out, out with you !
Fling-to the doors !
A murrain on the curs !
So, I am master !
The Unknown Minstrel.
Well and merrily done !
But look you to the lady ; she has swooned.
Tannhauser.
Who are you,
sir, stood
smiling, nonchalant,
At all the turmoil, ridiculing
it ?
You knew the secret symbol of my life,
You forced me to that miserable song.
The Unknown Minstrel.
My name,
sir, at your service,
is Geschicht.
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