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