The Monk

by Matthew Gregory Lewis

Slowly He returns to his Cell at Evening, for no one there is anxious for his arrival; He has no comfort in his solitary unsavoury meal: He throws himself upon his couch of Moss despondent and dissatisfied, and wakes only to pass a day as joyless, as monotonous as the former.’

An Author, whether good or bad, or between both, is an Animal whom everybody is privileged to attack; For though All are not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to judge them.

’Tis not the crime which holds your hand, but the punishment; ’Tis not respect for God which restrains you, but the terror of his vengeance!