Original subtitles

Luncheon, milady.

Good afternoon.

From whom is your letter?

My sister.

He got up eventually.

That’s a good sign.

My mistress rises every day at six.

Bloody hell.

I wish to make your happiness the first object in life.

Please tell me what you expect of me, and I will try.

I only want a woman to laugh.

I don’t care what she is besides.

I could make Augusta laugh at anything.

I daresay I might laugh if you said something funny.

Well then, climb that ledge. I’ll race you.

- What? - To the top there.

One, two, three, go!

I’m stuck!

Oh, you’re reading the Bible!

Yes. But it will do no good.

You have married a fallen angel.

I think that is what Mr Hobhouse calls “an affectation”.

Do you?

Well, proselytize, then.

Come along.

Sit down and convert me.

You may find it a problem.

I’m an accomplished solver of problems.

And you reckon you can solve me?

With your fraction of theology...

I warm to the challenge.

Alas, my dear. I already have a great mind to believe in Christianity.

As I thought.

Merely for the pleasure of fancying myself damned.

You’ve seen my mark. You know how wicked I am.

You were born with a minor deformity, nothing more.

- You are not wicked. - Oh, I am a villain, Belle.

I could convince you over it in three words.

Come back to bed.

You’ll wake the staff.

Your head should have a softer pillow than my heart.

I wonder which will break first –

yours or mine.

Why are you so miserable, B.?

Annabella, you are good to me.

I could not have hoped for a fonder wife.

- I’ll do anything for you. - Would you?

Name it. I’ll do it.

Take me to visit your sister. That’s what I should like.

It’s a devil of a long way to Newmarket, Belle.

Well, that’s what I should like.

Got a bad feeling in my water, Miss Rood.

- What is the matter? - I need a drink.

Why?

Must one give reasons for a drink?

Augusta. My wife.

- Lady Byron. - Mrs Leigh.

I’ve heard so much about you.

I trust you had a wonderful honeymoon?

A treacle moon.

Well, we waded through it, didn’t we, Belle?

This is Medora?

She’s lovely.

Medora? The girl in The Corsair?

Definitely a Byron, isn’t she?

B. has promised he will not go out so much as he was used to.

We shall stay home and read.

Oh, we’re looking forward to a quiet life in Piccadilly, aren’t we?

I intend to start him on Locke’s Reasonableness of Christianity.

Let him try arguing with that.

I wonder how the fashions go, this season.

Are the women wearing drawers or are they not?

That is the question.

To bare arse or not to bare arse.

He’s a fond tease, isn’t he, sis?

Will you take up drawers, Belle? Augusta has.

You’ll save that kind of talk for your club, if you don’t mind.

I don’t know where you get these ideas.

I get them from the month we spent at Newstead, in the snow.

I’ve never been to Newstead.

No, and you never will, because I’m forced to sell it.

If you hadn’t been so profligate, you wouldn’t have to.

Well, you are the chief architect of my fate.

A fate that can only be described as benevolent.

You have married felicitously, George.

I should not have married at all.

Well, I’m tired. I think I shall go to bed.

Are you coming?

Indeed the old fool fancies himself a poet,

and composes Durham Doggerel in my honour.

While her mother, who could crack walnuts with her buttocks

and weeps tears of glass,

is as gentile a trollop as one might wish to meet.

You are vile.

Oh, it was a jolly charade.

How long, I wonder, can I go on playing my part?

Now that I have you.

No.

- Gus... - No.

Your wife is under my roof.

What are you doing?

It’s perfectly normal.

Oh, is it?

Don’t you like it?

Have you heard from Seaham? How is your papa?

His gout is troubling him.

Tiresome, gout. But rarely fatal.

Do see out at the first sign of terminal illness, though, won’t you?

I find it completely perplexing, this extraordinary sollicitude

as to my prospects of fortune.

You have wealth of your own.

My dear, I cannot sell Newstead.

I have nothing but debt.

I will not let something as dull as debt cause doubts and miss between us.

- I’m very loyal, you know. - Oh, God...

Will you please stop this blaspheming?

Your master seems vapourish.

Oh, he’s a decent sort-a.

There’s som’ ’bout this marrying that don’t agree with him.

- Married yourself, are ye? - Me?

Widower.

Sorry to hear it.

- Most of the time he’s a darling. - Is he?

We were happy at Seaham, but then we came here and...

Well...

I boss him about.

Silly goose resents it.

He’s the gentlest man.

But when he’s in his black mood, he’s horrid.

- Did you tell him to marry me? - Of course.

I had to get rid of him somehow.

We must reform. You said it yourself.

- Augusta, I need you. - That is over. In the past.

- Medora is not in the past. - Medora is nothing to do with you.

- Medora is the Colonel’s child. - Oh, is she?

This is a very sudden interest you have in little babies.

I’d laid down with you, Gus. We were lovers!

But now you are married. And it is ancient history.

Christ...

- I hate being married. - You may not hate it.

You must try to be content, try to be a good husband.

- Will you try? - Tell me why I should!

If you love me as you say, you would try.

I do love you.

Then try.

Goodbye.

Bye, George.

- Goodbye! - Goodbye!

She’s a darling, I like her enormously.

She tells me she’s been made a lady-in-waiting to Queen Charlotte,

so she’ll be often up to town.

I said to come up to us in Piccadilly.

B., I think I’m expecting a child.

Oh, God...

Nice place.

Marriage has its perquisites, eh?

Well, I got a wife and a cold on the same day.

And I got rid of the cold pretty speedily.

I don’t think there’s any need for that.

You haven’t lived here for six months.

We hope for a boy, of course.

We are most contented, aunt.

Well, to be frank we were a little discomposed at Six Mile Bottom,

but we seem to have weathered that.

Keep your eye on Mrs Leigh.

The woman is very clever and very wicked.

- Good morning, captain Hobhouse. - Plain Mr Hobhouse now, Lady Byron.

I had to resign my commission.

Did it cost a lot, getting elected?

Most of my inheritance, I’m afraid.

But I rather suspect it was worth it.

I’m now in a position where I may have some influence upon the fate of this country.

And that is where I have always wanted to be.

What have you got against living in Piccadilly, George?

It’s seven hundred a year, that’s what.

And the day before last, I found a grey hair on my head.

Christ...

Twenty-eight, insolvent and grey.

Who’s that, talking to Shelley?

A Greek fellow.

Drumming up money for some lost cause.

I trust Shelley to fall for it.

- Uh, milord, there are... - Not now, Fletcher.

W-We’re having a little trouble... w-with...

bailiffs, milord.

Mama will hear this news.

No doubt the heavenly host have contacted her already.

Have the civility not to mock the pious.

You’re mother is about as pious as a boiled egg.

What is it you expect of me, B.?

Am I not good enough for you?

- You are too good. - You could be better.

You make me worse.

- What is that? - Laudanum.

For my nerves.

- Good morning. - Are you working?

No, I am thinking of killing myself.

I only forbear from a consideration of the pleasure it’d give my mother-in-law.

My name is Claire Clairmont. I’m a friend of Shelley’s.

Oh. I have read his “Queen Mab”.

And why are you here, Miss Clairmont?

I want to go to bed with you.

- How did he take it? - Rather keen, I think.

- But isn’t he married? - Oh, married, what is that?

I can never resist the temptation of throwing a pebble at it as I pass by.

I shall marry Shelley, you know?

What prevented you from coming across and saying hello?

Not everyone at the club approves of your membership.

And you listen to them, do you?

Look, because I’m a revolutionist,

I’m dragged to the courts for exposing their frauds and scorning their power.

And they will tear from me my children, my property, my liberty, and my fame.

But how can I keep silent, when there is this?

All religion is business in superstition.

Priests are agents of state power, poetry our weapon against them.

More, Claire. More.

We want a new society. For all men.

And women too. Can man be free if woman be a slave?

Tambourgi!

Tambourgi!

Tambourgi!

Fletcher!

Ah! Fletcher!

Brandy and soda,

if you please.

Yes, milord.

Your parrot bit my finger.

I can get along with anyone.

Why can’t I get along with her?

We’re like to parallel lines, belonging to infinity.

Side by side, but destined never to meet.

- And I’m behaving like a swine. - Any idea why?

- Oh, because I’m a Byron. - And you’re all doomed.

You engineer it, man.

You can’t get up in the morning without digging a pit for yourself.

I simply won’t accept all this predestination guff!

I don’t believe that any man is damned unequivocally to hell.

No, well...

You’re not from Aberdeen, are you?

And everything is ready for your accouchement?

We are all prepared. Mama is sending Mrs Curtin.

And I have asked Mrs Leigh to come up.

Mrs Leigh?

She and her brother are awfully close.

But they have some secret, Caro, that I do not share.

I do love Augusta, but it is so frustrating;

it is like a private language between them –

one that I am not allowed to learn.

What?

I will keep ’till tomorrow, milord.

I may not be here tomorrow.

What do you want, Fletcher?

It’s Miss Rood.

She and me have an inclination to marry.

And I wish to ask for your Lordship’s permission.

Beware. The place is full of Lady Milbanke’s spies.

The worst is Mrs Curtin – a bitch from hell.

I’m sure she’s nothing of the kind.

You had been to your wife?

Dear sis.

I’ve just this minute seen him.

He is behaving oddly.

I have asked my doctors to conduct an examination.

I think he has some malady.

But they found nothing, did they, Mrs Curtin?

Nothing they could prove.

You don’t know what a fool I’ve been about him.

Oh, I’m such a silly-billy.

- Mr and Mrs Fletcher. - Hear-hear.

Mr and Mrs Fletcher!

I paid a call on cousin Annabella.

I believe she’s finally found a sum she can’t do.

Pray, don’t talk in riddles, Caro. You know I abhor riddles.

It is a curious addition: Byron + a sister = ...

Mrs Leigh has come to town?

And installed at Piccadilly, for the birth.

He has long caught a disaster. She is his catastrophy.

- At what are you hinting? - What do you think?

Oh, I hardly know.

An outrage, which no person of taste will find themselves able to stomach.

They are not attached?

Show me her feet.

What were you doing down there?

Were you trying to kill us both?

They’re perfect.

I hope you will be happy.

I will never be happy, Mrs Leigh.

And nor will you.

We are mired in the nightmare of our delinquencies.

I suggest I take Ada to the Seaham and recover there.

That’s a long journey for a new-born child.

Oh, I think you should go. Lady or mama pamper you a little.

And, when the opportunity arises,

aquaint Lady Milbanke with the wrongs he’s done you.

You will feel better.

I would marry a poet, wouldn’t I, Caro?

- I suppose I deserve it. - No.

Tell your mother everything.

I leave tomorrow.

Good.

That is good.

Some time apart.

For reflection.

If I thought it would change anything,

I’d throw myself at your feet and tell you I love you.

And beg you to start our marriage over again.

This is the object I treasure most in the world.

It went all around Greece with me.

Oh, my dear child!

Oh, papa!

He did what?!

- I’m for a reconciliation. - Absolutely no question of it.

His crime is in the deepest catalogue of human law.

What the deuce is it, then?

Hm?

I did not know it was wrong, papa.

I’m ashamed of you, George!

- You should go out more. - Is it true?

You sodomized your wife?

- Everyone does it in Turkey. - But...

Not here! Here you can still be hanged for it!

Oh, that is is a load of cant!

It is entirely common, as everybody knows.

But entirely uncommon to be cited in the divorce of the sixth Baron Byron.

Her lawyers are insisting on a deed of separation,

and if you do not sign it, if it comes to court,

there’ll be the most appalling scandal!

And God knows what else will get out.

My dear cousin,

It is hard for me to write this,

but as news of your probable separation is on everybody’s lips,

I must offer my condolence and support.

The man we have both loved is intolerable.

Clearly you cannot continue this travesty of a marriage

whilst his base feeling for his sister remains as potent as ever.

You’ve acted most bravely, Belle,

in attempting to curtail their lawless union

by the example of your piety and virtue.

But is was not in your power to prevent them.

They bonded tight and evil, and you must break away.

It is a hard wrench, I know, but it is just.

My thoughts and love are with you. Your devoted cousin.

- Your wife has signed. - Get out of the country for a spell.

Scroop’s right. Stay away from the public eye.

- But why? - Because you were their little Greek god.

And they delight in pulling you down and tearing you to pieces.

- There are awful rumours, George. - Go abroad tonight, please.

Abroad? I’m expected at Lady Jersey’s.

Mrs Leigh’s name has been mentioned.

My sister is beyond reproach.

And I will not slink off like a leper.

Blood of Christ, I’ve done nothing wrong!

You must run away.

Get away! Run!

Come with me.

I can’t, Georgie.

- Please, come with me. - It is impossible, I can’t.

- But soon, you’ll come soon? - Where?

I’ll write, I’ll tell you where.

Do write, Georgie, do.

Do you know how much I love you?

- Lord Byron. - Palazzo Mocenigo?

Ehm, sì.

Prego.

Arriverderci.

Though the day of my destiny’s over,

And the star of my fate hath declined,

Thy soft heart refused to discover

The faults which so many could find;

Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,

It shrunk not to share it with me,

And the love which my spirit hath painted

It never hath found but in thee.

In the desert a fountain is springing,

In the wide waste there still is a tree,

And a bird in the solitude singing,

Which speaks to my spirit of thee.

Prendimi con te.

Mr Shelley is here, milord.

Shelley! Oh, my dear good fellow!

Questo è il mio amico che viene dall’Inghilterra.

Vai al cucina,

e prepare qualcosa da mangiare e bere.

Her name is Margarita.

Built to breed gladiators from.

And illiterate, thank Christ.

But how wonderful that you are here!

Sit down.

What do you think of my little pallazzo?

I haven’t really expected to find you in such company, to be honest.

The learned Fletcher feels the same, do you not, Fletcher?

- Milord? - You mislike my Venetians.

I ought naught against Venetians.

- Except they’re foreign, of course. - Of course.

How is our dinner today?

Unspeakingly filthy and oily, milord.

As usual.

I don’t know where I’d be without Fletcher.

He reminds me so much of home.

Now...

Why are you in Venice?

Miss Clairmont wants her daughter.

No, I will not surrender her.

But she lives among catamites and prostitutes.

Which is why I’m resolved to place her in a convent,

when she’s a year or two older.

- A catholic convent? - Yes.

My daughter will become a good catholic.

And it may even be a nun –

a character somewhat wanted in our family.

Claire will be mortified.

Claire Clairmont, to express it delicately, is a damned bitch,

who had the very bad taste to fall pregnant after I inadvertedly lay in her bed.

I never loved her, or pretended to love her,

so you can disabuse Miss Claire bloody Clairmont today...

My God. Look at her.

She’s fine. Aren’t you, Allegra?

- She’s filthy. - Well, she’s alive.

Unlike most of yours.

Do you not think perhaps she would be better with her mother?

Claire has no money. The child is illegitimate.

In England she would be grossly disadvantaged.

In Italy, with a fair education and a settlement of five or six thousand,

she may perhaps marry respectably.

I do know what I do.

Do you ride, Shelley?

- What makes you write? - My inability to prevent it.

You?

My dream of revolution.

When the poor of every nation will rise up and throw off their chains.

Your problem is your intellect.

You gaze from your palace at the minnows below and you find their efforts meaningless,

their state unalterable, their misery unending, but it is not so.

- The material can be altered. - No.

All that holds us back is we ourselves.

If we were not weak, we might be all we dream of.

Oh, “if we were not weak”...

But man is born wicked and dies a sinner.

- So you hold no hope? - For what?

We live a little, and then...

good night.

I believe in the perfectibility of man.

You talk Utopia, Shelley.

You don’t think anything can be changed?

No, things may change.

But whether our actions have any effect on the process, is quite another matter.

So if the gondola goes down, halfway across the lagune,

you’ll simply accept it, will you?

If the gondola goes down, I’ll swim.

And you?

I can’t swim.

You can’t swim?

- What will you do? - Well...

I shall solve the great riddle, shan’t I?

Christ...

I’ve forgotten about her.

Your hot milk, sir.

You have been His Lordship’s man a long time, I think.

Yes, I have, sir.

Does it surprise you to see him fettered by a back-alley whore?

On the contrary, sir.

Any woman can manage Lord Byron.

Excepting Lady Byron, of course.

She couldn’t get the hang of it at all.

Ah, Fletcher.

- Hock and soda, if you please. - Milord.

Sir?

How did you calm your courtisane?

- What did you say? - Say?

Why, nothing at all.

It’s an oratorial skill I call “The Eloquence of Action”.

The one way I could silence my wife.

Now.... Here is something for you to read,

if you would be gracious enough.

No one has ever written a poem like that before.

I just don’t accept that there exists such a thing

as a subject unsuited for verse.

“But now at thirty years my hair is grey –

“(I wonder what it will be like at forty?

“I thought of a peruke the other day – )

“My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I

“Have squandered my whole summer while ’twas May,

“And feel no more the spirit to retort; I

“Have spent my life, both interest and principal,

“And deem not, what I deemed, my soul invincible.

“What is the end of Fame? ’tis but to fill

“A certain portion of uncertain paper:

“Some liken it to climbing up a hill,

“Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour;

“For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,

“And bards burn what they call their ‘midnight taper’,

“To have, when the original is dust,

“A name, a wretched picture and worse bust.”

You should not sit in solitude in Italy.

You are needed in your own country.

Mrs Fletcher, do please cure Ada of that filthy habit.

Listen to me, Belle.

She’s making us look foolish.

She’s still a lady-in-waiting,

she has quarters at the palace of St. James’, why...

The woman maintains the full sufficiency of her social circuit.

Despite everything she has done.

And for the Regent’s Fête I shall wear mauve.

Such a feminine colour.

With a stole, perhaps.

What do you think, sis?

I think we have talked enough of gauzes and satins.

I’m surprised to find you’re going to town at all.

But the Regent’s Fête I have to attend.

In my official what-not.

I’m surprised you can show your face in public!

Dearest Belle, I never meant to harm you.

You have destroyed my life!

My daughter will never know her father!

I am stared at where ever I go!

Why, there’re all cartoons in the newspapers!

But I have not wronged you.

- I’ve never abused you. - Yes, you have!

What have I done?

You had...

relations with my husband.

- Mama. - It’s all right, Medora.

Medora? Oh, this is Medora?

Why, I’m surprised she has not got two heads!

What do you want here?

I want a confession, that’s what I want!

Why are you not contrite?

Do you think that the laws that apply to others do not apply to Augusta Leigh?

I never meant to hurt you, Belle.

You will tell me everything.

Is there post, Fletcher?

Not today, milord.

My sweet sister,

We may have been very wrong, but I repent of nothing.

except that cursed marriage.

it is heart-breaking to think of our long separation –

and, I am sure, more than punishment enough for all our sins.

Needn’t I reply? He seems so sad.

What are you doing?

Is the story of your life. Sì?

- You told me you could not read. - I try. I take lesson.

- Lesson? - Sì! Then I read Lord Byron.

Margarita, it’s time for you to go.

No!

Why?!

I really am not interested in women who can read.

Please, our time is over.

Thank you very much, I enjoyed it.

But you’ve become quite ungovernable.

So adieu.

I kill you!

Fletcher!

Breakfast, please, Fletcher.

- Eggs, I think. - Very good, milord.

O, Madonna!

No! Let me go! Byron! I no fight!

- You give your word? - Sì!

Very well, Tita.

Here, here...

here and here.

And Newstead Abbey finally is sold.

For how long was I in the water, Fletcher,

when I beat the cavalier Mengaldo at swimming?

From half past four to a quarter past eight in the evening, milord.

Plus I had a piece in the morning, and another at ten at night.

It’s not hard to come by, then.

Only I had a couple of hundreds since carnival.

What I earn by my brains, I spend on my bollocks.

Come, Lady. He’s dangerous to look at.

I do detest the English more with every year that passes.

I harm nobody.

I make love with but one woman at a time.

And as quietly as possible.

And the English lie through thick and thin.

And invent every kind of absurdity.

I’m fairly certain it’s a Tintoretto.

But in this light... I’m damned if I may be sure.

Come and give me your opinion.

I have no opinion on painting, I detest painting.

The most pointless of all the arts.

I grew tired of promiscuous concubinage,

so I have quited Venice.

I went in pursuit of a contessa –

a young beauty, married to a rich old man of sixty.

Teresa is as fair as sunrise, and as warm as noon.

She wants me for her cavaliere servente.

This is a curious Italian custom where a wife may take an admirer,

with the husband’s full knowledge,

so long as certain niceties are observered.

I am permitted to hold her fan at the opera, for example.

And I accompany her to mass on occasion,

but absolutely nothing more.

I lived for a year at her palace in Ravenna,

where I wrote a poem called “Don Juan”,

which you may or may not like.

I am run to fat, dear Augusta,

and the crow’s-foot has been rather lavish of its indelible steps.

“My hair, though not gone, seems going,

“and my teeth remain only by way of courtesy.

Silly-billy. So fretful about his appearance.

I always believed the whole affair might terminate unexpectedly,

for they are liberal with the knife in Ravenna.

But had Count Guiccioli murdered me,

I should hardly have complained, for I am done with passion.

Teresa is my last attachment.

However, the marriage was annulled, by papal decree, no less.

And we have come to Pisa, to the Casa Lanfranchi.

We have acquaintance here –

Shelley and his wife, some others from England –

a circle of friends.

The weather is splendid.

Life is slow.

It is all entirely congenial.

Dearest Gus, when you write to me,

tell me you love me.

I miss you terribly.

Do you know what I perpetually wonder?

No, sis.

Perpetually wonder whether your carnal relations with my husband

continued after we were married.

Oh, goodness me, no.

Good heavens.

Don Juan indeed.

We may image what that is like.

“A feast of indelicacy”.

“Too bawdy for publication”.

It may be bawdy, but is it not good English?

It may be profligate, but is it not life?

Is it not the thing?

- From Murray? - No, from junior Minister Hobhouse!

His prick’s still wet from the stews of Venice.

- But for the sake of his career... - Don’t give way to them.

I will not give way to all the cants of Christendom!

I will not submit to have Don Juan cut about. Christ!

England is decrepit.

Europe is decrepit. A worn-out portion of the globe.

I don’t know. There is Greece.

- Ferocious fighting in Greece. - Well, well...

Who would have thought Greeks could be heroes again?

This is not lyric poetry. This is politics and battle.

And it’ll all amount to nothing, as usual.

Why would it all come to nothing?

Because the forces of reaction are too strong.

For God’s sake, George, you must have hope.

Hope? What’s hope?

A paint on the face of existence.

The least touch of truth rubs it off.

And then we see what hollow-cheeked harlot we got hold of.

Gentlemen, come in.

Williams I think you know, And this is Edward Trelawny.

My God! My corsair!

The Greeks were besieging the Turkish garrison and the Acropolis.

The Turks ran out of lead for their bullets.

But they reckoned they’d find some if they smashed open the columns of the Parthenon.

But when the Greeks heard this, they sent the Turks some lead,

which was used to make the bullets, which were then shot back at them.

That’s what the Parthenon means to these Greek fellows.

Why, Elgin should never have touched it.

And that’s why they’ll win in the end.

And why we ought to go.

Contessa?

Byron, there is a bad news.

Allegra is dead.

Allegra?

So sorry. Your daughter is dead.

Nobody will blame you.

You think not?

I’m certain the physicians did their best.

Yes, I do.

But I doubt Miss Clairmont will believe that she died of fever.

God, I...

I miss the child.

Such brilliant, brilliant eyes.

So?

Why do you think she’s gone?

Well...

Great mystery.

Allegra has solved it before us.

Don’t go to Greece.

- Why not? - ’Cause I’ve heard what it’s like.

Oh?

What’s it like?

When Tripolis fell, the Greeks butchered three thousand civilians.

Pregnant women were ripped open.

Their babes hacked out, their heads struck off

and placed on the bodies of dogs.

And this is the side we’re supporting?

It’s barbaric.

Mary, I’ve done nothing with my life except luxuriate.

Even if it is barbaric, I must, for God’s sake, do something.

A boat’s gone down.

They’ve found a body.

But after ten days in the sea...

He called it “the great riddle”.

I lost two children.

My mother died in childbirth.

Claire’s Allegra.

Shelley’s first wife.

Now Shelley too.

It’s not a riddle.

It just hurts.

Drill them again tomorrow, Tita.

Damn this leg.

I’ll exchange legs if you give me some of your brains.

You’d regret it. Sometimes I can feel my brains boiling.

Like poor Shelley’s when we barbecued him.

I’m supposed to administer the funds from London.

But who am I to give them to?

How do I turn a gang of bandits into an army?

We came here to fight. But we’ve done nothing except drill.

War turns out to be anything but glamorous, doesn’t it?

But I’ve not seen war.

If I stay in Missolonghi, I never shall.

I’m going North. Find some action.

Trelawny, don’t go, please!

- You’re my best officer. - This is pointless.

I want to fight, not dress up and march around.

- Bath’s ready, milord. - Thank you, Fletcher.

That would be nice.

Do you think we will win?

I don’t know why we’re fighting, to tell the truth.

But it is at least something. Isn’t it?

They will not go on without payment.

This rain don’t seem to stop, does it, milord?

No, Fletcher.

It’s much like Notts, in that respect.

- But they don’t play cricket here. - Not that we know of, milord. No.

Sometimes I dream of cricket.

I find I dream of women rather more.

Yes.

I dream of them, too.

Tambourgi!

Tambourgi!

Je si hene e bukur, hene e bukur,

kjo per syte e mi!

Tambourgi!

Tambourgi!

Je si uje Burimi, uje Burimi...

I learned it at the court of Ali Pasha, in Albania.

I sang it to the wives of the gentry of England and Ireland.

As they undressed and stood before me.

- Any change? - No, doctor.

Tis a mild marsh fever.

We shall bleed him and he will recover.

Fucking Greece...

But I have lived, and have not lived in vain:

My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire,

And my frame perish even in conquering pain;

But there is that within me which shall tire

Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire;

Something unearthly, which they deem not of,

Like the remember’d tone of a mute lyre,

Shall on their soften’d spirits sink, and move

In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love.