Sev monologue — Polyeucte

O happy thou! O easy remedy! One poor faint sigh cures love's infirmity! Thy heart thy tool, o'er every passion queen, Beyond all change and chance thou sit'st serene! In easy flow can pass thy love new-born From cold indifference to colder scorn; Such resolution is the equal mate Of god or monster, love, aversion, hate. This fine-spun adamant Ithuriel's spear Could never pierce: for other stuff is here! (Points to himself.) No faint 'Alas!' no swift-repented sigh Can heal the cureless wound from which I die. Sure, reason finds that love his easy prey With Lethe aye at hand to point the way; With ordered fires like thine, I too could smother A heart in leash, find solace in another. Too fair, too dear--from whom the Fates me sever! Thou hast no heart to give--thou lov'dst me never!