Chekitan monologue (Act 2) — Ponteach; Or, The Savages of America

Thy Fire thou hast a Right to style a Virtue; Heat is our Friend when kept within due Bounds, But if unbridled and allowed to rage, It burns and blisters, torments and consumes, And, Torrent-like, sweeps every Comfort by. Think if our Father's Plan should prove abortive, Our Troops repuls'd, or in th' Encounter slain, Where are our conquer'd Kingdoms then to share, Where are our Vict'ries, Trophies, Triumphs, Crowns, That dazzle in thy Eye, and swell thy Heart; That nerve thy Arm, and wing thy Feet to War With this impetuous Violence and Speed? Crest-fallen then, our native Empire lost, In captive Chains we drag a wretched Life, Or fly inglorious from the conquering Foe To barren Mountains from this fertile Land, There to repent our Folly when too late, In Anguish mourn, and curse our wretched Fate.