In its birth even! some fierce leprous spot
Will mar the brow's dissimulating! I
Shall murmur no smooth speeches got by heart,
But, frenzied, pour forth all our woeful story,
The love, the shame, and the despair—with them
Round me aghast as round some cursed fount
That should spirt water, and spouts blood. I'll not
... Henry, you do not wish that I should draw
This vengeance down? I 'll not affect a grace
That 's gone from me—gone once, and gone forever!