Paul monologue — Polyeucte

All, save thyself, to thee, my love, are friends: Love but thyself, love me,--thy torment ends. Alone thou seal'st thy doom, alone wouldst shed That blood by all Armenia honoured. Yes, thou art saved, if thou for mercy plead; Demand thy death, and thou are lost indeed. Think of the worth of this self-hated life, And think in pity of Pauline,--thy wife! Think of the people that their prince adores, Think of the honours Felix on thee pours! Oh, I am nothing, nothing unto thee, But, husband, think how dear thou art to me! Think how the path of glory on thee opes, Thou dearest lodestar of a nation's hopes! Shall blood of kings be but the headsman's sport? Is life a toy wherewith thy death to court?