Oh! my offence is rank; it smells to heaven; It hath the primal, eldest curse upon 't, A brother's murder! Pray I cannot, Though inclination be as sharp as 't will: My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent; And like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. What if this curséd hand Were thicker than itself with brother's blood; Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy, But to confront the visage of offence? And what's in prayer, but this twofold force,-- To be forestalled, ere we come to fall, Or pardoned being down? Then I'll look up; My fault is past.--But, O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? "Forgive me my foul murder!" That cannot be; since I am still possessed Of those effects for which I did the murder,-- My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. May one be pardoned, and retain the offence? In the corrupted currents of this world, Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice; And oft 't is seen, the wicked prize itself Buys out the law: but 't is not so above; There is no shuffling; there the action lies In his true nature; and we ourselves compell'd, Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To give in evidence. What then? What rests? Try what repentance can: what can it not? Yet what can it, when one can not repent? O wretched state! O bosom, black as death! O limed soul, that, struggling to be free, Art more engag'd! Help, angels! make assay! Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart, with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe! All may be well. Shakespeare. CCXLIII. PERSEVERANCE KEEPS HONOR BRIGHT.