Nay, nay, O Queen, nothing extenuate;
Your word of doom stands fast; and deem it not
A heartless word, ’tis mild. I took the way
That deep I feel I never should have taken,
But I have borne my curse with me as well.
I was grown ripe for death because I knew
That every good which life can e’er bestow
Was squandered waste, and if it chanced that night
I found him not, and o’er the hearth’s pollution
My swift-let blood poured not its cleansing wash,