Bland monologue (Act 4) — André

Where'er I look cold desolation meets me. My father--Andre--and self-condemnation! Why seek I Andre now? Am _I_ a man, To soothe the sorrows of a suffering friend? The weather-cock of passion! fool inebriate! Who could with ruffian hand strive to provoke Hoar wisdom to intemperance! who could lie! Aye, swagger, lie, and brag!--Liar! Damnation!! O, let me steal away and hide my head, Nor view a man, condemn'd to harshest death, Whose words and actions, when by mine compar'd, Shew white as innocence, and bright as truth. I now would shun him; but that his shorten'd Thread of life, gives me no line to play with. He comes, with smiles, and all the air of triumph; While I am sinking with remorse and shame: Yet _he_ is doom'd to death, and _I_ am free!