Gent monologue (Act 5) — The Saint's Tragedy

Talk not of honour--Hell's aflame within me: Foul water quenches fire as well as fair; If I do meet him he shall die the death, Come fair, come foul: I tell you, there are wrongs The fumbling piecemeal law can never touch, Which bring of themselves to the injured, right divine, Straight from the fount of right, above all parchments, To be their own avengers: dainty lawyers, If one shall slay the adulterer in the act, Dare not condemn him: girls have stabbed their tyrants, And common sense has crowned them saints; yet what-- What were their wrongs to mine? All gone! All gone! My noble boys, whom I had trained, poor fools, To win their spurs, and ride afield with me! I could have spared them--but my wife! my lady! Those dainty limbs, which no eyes but mine-- Before that ruffian mob--Too much for man! Too much, stern Heaven!--Those eyes, those hands, Those tender feet, where I have lain and worshipped-- Food for fierce flames! And on the self-same day-- The day that they were seized--unheard--unargued-- No witness, but one vile convicted thief-- The dog is dead and buried: Well done, henchmen! They are not buried! Pah! their ashes flit About the common air; we pass them--breathe them! The self-same day! If I had had one look! One word--one single tiny spark of word, Such as two swallows change upon the wing! She was no heretic: she knelt for ever Before the blessed rood, and prayed for me. Art sure he comes this road?