Soph monologue (Act 1) — The Saint's Tragedy

Felt? What then? Every foolish wench has feelings In these religious days, and thinks it carnal To wash her dishes, and obey her parents-- No wonder they ape you, if you ape them-- Go to! I hate this humble-minded pride, Self-willed submission--to your own pert fancies; This fog-bred mushroom-spawn of brain-sick wits, Who make their oddities their test for grace, And peer about to catch the general eye; Ah! I have watched you throw your playmates down To have the pleasure of kneeling for their pardon. Here's sanctity--to shame your cousin and me-- Spurn rank and proper pride, and decency;-- If God has made you noble, use your rank, If you but know how. You Landgravine? You mated With gentle Lewis? Why, belike you'll cowl him, As that stern prude, your aunt, cowled her poor spouse; No--one Hedwiga at a time's enough,-- My son shall die no monk.