Con monologue (Act 4) — The Saint's Tragedy

There! she is laid again--Some bedlam dream. So--here I sit; am I a guardian angel Watching by God's elect? or nightly tiger, Who waits upon a dainty point of honour To clutch his prey, till it shall wake and move? We'll waive that question: there's eternity To answer that in. How like a marble-carven nun she lies Who prays with folded palms upon her tomb, Until the resurrection! Fair and holy! O happy Lewis! Had I been a knight-- A man at all--What's this? I must be brutal, Or I shall love her: and yet that's no safeguard; I have marked it oft: ay--with that devilish triumph Which eyes its victim's writhings, still will mingle A sympathetic thrill of lust--say, pity.