While the fair Wanton put every invention of lust in practice, every refinement in the art of pleasure which might heighten the bliss of her possession, and render her Lover's transports still more exquisite, Ambrosio rioted in delights till then unknown to him: Swift fled the night, and the Morning blushed to behold him still clasped in the embraces of Matilda.
Intoxicated with pleasure, the Monk rose from the Syren's luxurious Couch.

He no longer reflected with shame upon his incontinence, or dreaded the vengeance of offended heaven.

His only fear was lest Death should rob him of enjoyments, for which his long Fast had only given a keener edge to his appetite.

Matilda was still under the influence of poison, and the voluptuous Monk trembled less for his Preserver's life than his Concubine's.

Deprived of her, He would not easily find another Mistress with whom He could indulge his passions so fully, and so safely.