What monstrous thing, my lord, is this you ask?
What I from the head of mine own child!—No, no!
It cannot be, kind sir, you meant not that—
God, in His grace, forbid! You could not ask
A father seriously to do that thing!
GESSLER.
Thou art to shoot an apple from his head!
I do desire—command it so.
TELL.
What, I!
Level my cross-bow at the darling head
Of mine own child? No—rather let me die!
GESSLER.
Or thou must shoot, or with thee dies the boy.
TELL.
Shall I become the murderer of my child!
You have no children, sir—you do not know
The tender throbbings of a father's heart.