Be damned to death eterne! parted from Good,
Enchained to Ill! No, by the God of gods;
No, by the living will within my breast,
It cannot be, and shall not; and if this,
This guilt of your distracted fantasy,
Be our experiment’s sum, thank God for guilt,
Which makes me free!
But thou, poor wife! poor mother, shall I say?
Big with the first maternity of man,
Draw’st from thy teeming womb thick fancies fond,