Their chiefest prospect murdering basilisks!
[325] Their softest touch as smart as lizards’ stings!
Their music frightful as the serpent’s hiss,
[♦] And boding screech-owls make the concert full!
[♦] All the foul terrors in dark-seated hell—
Queen. Enough, sweet Suffolk; thou torment’st thyself;
330 And these dread curses, like the sun ’gainst glass,
[♦] Or like an overcharged gun, recoil,
[♦] And turn the force of them upon thyself.
Suf. You bade me ban, and will you bid me leave?