Shall violate this plant, must pierce my flesh,
And, when that falls, I die.
Arth. If this be true,
O never, never-to-be-ended charm,
At least by me!—yet all may be illusion.
Break up, ye thickening fogs, and filmy mists,
All that belie my sight, and cheat my sense!
For reason still pronounces, 'tis not she,
And, thus resolved,—
[Lifts up his sword, as going to strike.