Our contemplations, press us down to earth,
As though our breath had made it thick with plague.
Cursed! accursed be the freaks of Nature,
That mar us from ourselves, and make our acts
The scorn and loathing of our afterthoughts—
The finger mark of Conscience, who, most treacherous,
Wakes to accuse, but slumber'd o'er the sin.
Exit.
SCENE III.
A Room in the Triple Tun, Blackfriars.