This earth doth seem a hell and God a devil.
Ar. Margaret, forswear this maddened mood.
Catherine, your mother killed herself,
By her own folly, hoping against hope.
Bethink you of your child. You murder it
In killing my poor hopes. Give me thy love,
And life to thy sweet babe, be not so cruel,
You forced me to this, I would not have stirred
One finger to molest you or your child,
Had you not by your beauty raised in me