The things we do!

Oh what a horror brings this beastlinesse,
This chiefe of sinnes, this self-accusing crime
Of murther! now I shame to know my selfe,
That am estrang'd so much from that I was,
True, harmlesse, honest, full of curtesie,
Now false, deceitfull, full of injurie.
Hould thou his heeles, ile bear his wounded head:
Would he did live, so I myself were dead!
[_Bring down the body, and cover it over with Faggots himselfe_.
_Rach_. Those little stickes, do hide the murthred course,
But stickes, nor ought besides, can hide the sinne.
He sits on high, whose quick all-seeing eye,
Cannot be blinded by mans subtilties.
_Mer_. Look every where, can you discerne him now?
_Rach_. Not with mine eye, but with my heart I can.
_Mer_. That is because thou knowest I laide him there:
To guiltinesse each thought begetteth feare.
But go, my true, though wofull comforter,
Wipe up the blood in every place above,
So that no drop be found about the house:
I know all houses will be searcht anon.
Then burne the clothes, with which you wipe the ground
That no apparant signe of blood be found.


Pages:
34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58