No saint
More chaste than she. Her consecrated shape
She kept as 'twere a shrine, and just as full
Of holy thoughts; her very breath was incense,
And all her gestures sacred as the forms
Of priestly offices!
III:1:40 PRIOR.
I'll save thy soul.
Thou must repent that one so fair and pure,
And loving thee so well --
III:1:41 ALAR.
Father, in vain.
There is a bar betwixt me and repentance.
And yet --
III:1:42 PRIOR.
Ay, yet --
III:1:43 ALAR.
The day may come, I'll kneel
In such a mood, and might there then be hope?
III:1:44 PRIOR.
We hold the keys that bind and loosen all:
But penitence alone is mercy's portal.
The obdurate soul is doomed. Remorseful tears
Are sinners' sole ablution. O, my son,
Bethink thee yet, to die in sin like thine;
Eternal masses profit not thy soul,
Thy consecrated wealth will but upraise
The monument of thy despair. Once more,
Ere yet the vesper lights shall fade away,
I do adjure thee, on the church's bosom
Pour forth thy contrite heart.
III:1:45 ALAR.
A contrite heart!
A stainless hand would count for more.
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