It cannot be; this is some horrid dream;
I shall wake soon. [Touching him.] Art flesh? art man? or but
The shadows seen in sleep? It is too real.
What have I done to thee? how sinn'd against thee,
That thou shouldst crush me thus?
Mel.
Pauline, by pride
Angels have fallen ere thy time; by pride—
That sole alloy of thy most lovely mold—
The evil spirit of a bitter love,