A second time I kill my husband dead, / When second husband kisses me in bed.

Ecstasy! / My pulse as yours doth temperately keep time, / And makes as healthful music. It is not madness / That I have utter’d.

See what a grace was seated on this brow, / Hyperion’s curls, the front of Jove himself, / An eye like Mars, to threaten and command, / A station like the herald Mercury / New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul / That not your trespass, but my madness speaks.

O'er whom his very madness, like some ore / Among a mineral of metals base, / Shows itself pure. He weeps for what is done.

The Queen his mother / Lives almost by his looks; and for myself,— / My virtue or my plague, be it either which,— / She’s so conjunctive to my life and soul, / That, as the star moves not but in his sphere, / I could not but by her.

I will, my lord; I pray you pardon me.

[_Aside._] It is the poison'd cup; it is too late.