Tête-d'or, there are many kinds of men, the weak and the strong, the sick and the well. I pity them; the incompetent and the stammering, the poor of spirit and those that ask for alms With the deprecating smile that masks the shudder of shame behind. And those that are mocked and cannot make reply, and cowards, And those who from the darkness of their souls exhale a prayer devoid of savor! And you, do you not also pity me? And I say to you like that woman When she lay at the roadside in the shadow of death; "Why do you let me die?" TÊTE-D'OR: Take me with you if you wish! Do you think that I am not weary? Groaning, I strove to tear myself from those strong and bony hands. And now you weep and would bring me again to that terrible repose! The wind ruffles my hair and the heartbreak of the earth lies stark and bare before my despairing eyes! And I look and am filled with shame! O the fate of the bee and the fly whose life lasts only a season and endures but a single day! And the birds of the wood are also alive; and the caterpillar that crawls on the leaf and the broom that roots in the sand, And the ravening beast and the thistle with purple flowers! And you, who are dying, you counsel me to die! I cannot loose my limbs from these tough ligatures! O world! O self! O shameful destiny! Let me be iron and like a thing of wood! CÉBÈS: What hope.... TÊTE-D'OR: I look at you and is it thus you lie! CÉBÈS: Come, let's not talk of it. Things are better than you think. But, tell me.... I do not understand ... you follow me ... eh? What inner pride, what secret flame.... TÊTE-D'OR: Neither do I, I do not understand! I am tired! You speak of hidden things that the thick tongue shudders to say, Tales with no basis of reason, blood that flows like saliva! A little word of consolation watches beneath all wretchedness, Sweet forget-me-not of fire that lights us mournfully with its faithful gleam! --Beyond the silence a voice like the human voice Spoke to my soul and it melted and flowed like iron in the foundry! Still it resounds! That fervent hope warms us again like coffee! O glowing geranium! O clot of sunlight! It throbs! It bleeds like a fragment of living flesh! For there is a force and a spirit in me Like the bellows blowing on iron in the fire. I beg of you, do not ask me anything more! CÉBÈS: Yet it must be. --Mother, my brother! O nurse with sides caparisoned in steel! TÊTE-D'OR: Well? CÉBÈS: O brother, so at the last you have found no word to tell me! Ah well, I, I have something to tell to you. TÊTE-D'OR: What? CÉBÈS: It has not been permitted that I should die in such despair! And now I am beyond all pain, And it troubles me no more. Tête-d'or! TÊTE-D'OR: What, brother? CÉBÈS: Take me in your arms and hold me, for there is no longer any strength in me. And put me on your shoulder like an armful of leafy branches.