NAAMAN: 
  My King, there is no curse as terrible
  As that which lights a bosom-fire for him
  Who gives away his honour, to prolong
  A craven life whose every breath is shame! 
  If I betray the men who follow me,
  The city that has put her trust in me,
  The country to whose service I am bound,
  What king can shield me from my own deep scorn,
  What god release me from that self-made hell? 
  The tender mercies of Assyria
  I know; and they are cruel as creeping tigers. 
  Give up Damascus, and her streets will run
  Rivers of innocent blood; the city’s heart,
  That mighty, labouring heart, wounded and crushed
  Beneath the brutal hooves of the wild Bull,
  Will cry against her captain, sitting safe
  Among the nobles, in some pleasant place. 
  I shall be safe,—­safe from the threatened wrath
  Of unknown gods, but damned forever by
  The men I know,—­that is the curse I fear.

BENHADAD: 
  Speak not so high, my son.  Must we not bow
  Our heads before the sovereignties of heaven? 
  The unseen rulers are Divine.

NAAMAN;
          O King,
  I am unlearned in the lore of priests;
  Yet well I know that there are hidden powers
  About us, working mortal weal and woe
  Beyond the force of mortal to control. 
  And if these powers appear in love and truth,
  I think they must be gods, and worship them. 
  But if their secret will is manifest
  In blind decrees of sheer omnipotence,
  That punish where no fault is found, and smite
  The poor with undeserved calamity,
  And pierce the undefended in the dark
  With arrows of injustice, and foredoom
  The innocent to burn in endless pain,
  I will not call this fierce almightiness
  Divine.  Though I must bear, with every man,
  The burden of my life ordained, I’ll keep
  My soul unterrified, and tread the path
  Of truth and honour with a steady heart! 
  But if I err in this; and if there be
  Divinities whose will is cruel, unjust,
  Capricious and supreme, I will forswear
  The favour of these gods, and take my part
  With man to suffer and for man to die. 
  Have ye not heard, my lords?  The oracle
  Proclaims to me, to me alone, the doom
  Of vengeance if I lead the army out. 
  “Conquered or conquering!” I grip that chance! 
  Damascus free, her foes all beaten back,
  The people saved from slavery, the King
  Upheld in honour on his ancient throne,—­
  O what’s the cost of this?  I’ll gladly pay
  Whatever gods there be, whatever price
  They ask for this one victory.  Give me
  This gilded sign of shame to carry back;
  I’ll shake it in the face of Asshur’s king,
  And break it on his teeth.

BENHADAD:  [Rising.]
  Then go, my never-beaten captain, go! 
  And may the powers that hear thy solemn vow
  Forgive thy rashness for Damascus’ sake,
  Prosper thy fighting, and remit thy pledge.