I'd let these raw-boned fellows plague you so?
Marg. My sweet, brave boy!—Come, lords, and gentlemen;
Let us go cheerily to work! If woman,
In whose weak, yielding breast, nature puts forth
Her softest composition, can shake off
Her idle fears,—what may not you perform?
And you shall see me now, steel'd by th' occasion,
So far unsex myself, that tho' grim death
(Breaking the pale of time) shall stride the field,
With slaught'rous step,—and, prematurely, plunge