Con monologue (Act 2) — The Saint's Tragedy

This night she swears obedience to me! Wondrous Lord! How hast Thou opened a path, where my young dreams May find fulfilment: there are prophecies Upon her, make me bold. Why comes she not? She should be here by now. Strange, how I shrink-- I, who ne'er yet felt fear of man or fiend. Obedience to my will! An awful charge! But yet, to have the training of her sainthood; To watch her rise above this wild world's waves Like floating water-lily, towards heaven's light Opening its virgin snows, with golden eye Mirroring the golden sun; to be her champion, And war with fiends for her; that were a 'quest'; That were true chivalry; to bring my Judge This jewel for His crown; this noble soul, Worth thousand prudish clods of barren clay, Who mope for heaven because earth's grapes are sour-- Her, full of youth, flushed with the heart's rich first-fruits, Tangled in earthly pomp--and earthly love. Wife? Saint by her face she should be: with such looks The queen of heaven, perchance, slow pacing came Adown our sleeping wards, when Dominic Sank fainting, drunk with beauty:--she is most fair! Pooh! I know nought of fairness--this I know, She calls herself my slave, with such an air As speaks her queen, not slave; that shall be looked to-- She must be pinioned or she will range abroad Upon too bold a wing; 't will cost her pain-- But what of that? there are worse things than pain-- What! not yet here? I'll in, and there await her In prayer before the altar: I have need on't: And shall have more before this harvest's ripe.