Then, true, ambition, lust for power are cause,
But not ambition that the Dead One hugged
And not the lust for power that plagues the King.
I’ll not accuse you—’twould beseem me ill—
But, to requite your sending of a ghost,
A bloody ghost, into our marriage-chamber,
I will not see you shed the tear of rue
Though now we twain no more are side by side
And, for the Third, it wilders so my sense
That I am dumb when it were well to speak