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THE PRINCESS;
On me, me, me, the storm first breaks: I dare All these male thunderbolts: what is it ye fear? Peace! there are those to avenge us and they come: If not,—myself were like enough, O girls,To unfurl the maiden banner of our rights,And clad in iron burst the ranks of war,Or, falling, protomartyr of our cause,Die: yet I blame ye not so much for fear;Six thousand years of fear have made ye that From which I would redeem ye: but for those That stir this hubbub—you and you—I know Your faces there in the crowd—to-morrow morn We meet to elect new tutors; then shall they That love their voices more than duty, learn With whom they deal, dismiss'd in shame to live No wiser than their mothers, household stuff, Live chattels, mincers of each other's fame,Full of weak poison, turnspits for the clown,The drunkard's football, laughing-stocks of Time,Whose brains are in their hands and in their heels,
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