O, my offence is rank: it smells to heaven;

It hath the primal eldest curse upon’t –

A brother’s murder. Pray can I not:

Though inclination be as sharp as will,

My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent

And like a man to double business bound

I stand in pause where I shall first begin

And both neglect. What if this cursed hand

Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood?

Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens

To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy

But to confront the visage of offence?

And what’s in prayer but this twofold force

– To be forestalled ere we come to fall

Or pardoned, being down? Then I’ll look up:

My fault is past. But O, what form of prayer

Can serve my turn: ‘Forgive me my foul murder’?

That cannot be, since I am still possessed

Of those effects for which I did the murder,

My crown, mine own ambition and my Queen.