The night grows horrible, and all about me Like my black purpose: O the Conscience [King abed.
Of a lost Virgin; whither wilt thou pull me? To what things dismal, as the depth of Hell, Wilt thou provoke me? Let no [woman] dare From this hour be disloyal: if her heart Be flesh, if she have blood, and can fear, 'tis a daring Above that desperate fool that left his peace, And went to Sea to fight: 'tis so many sins An age cannot prevent 'em: and so great, The gods want mercy for: yet I must through 'em. I have begun a slaughter on my honour, And I must end it there: he sleeps, good heavens! Why give you peace to this untemperate beast That hath so long transgressed you? I must kill him, And I will do't bravely: the meer joy Tells me I merit in it: yet I must not