Whose will is weaponed with the elements! For oh-- Let the great spies of Jove, the sun and moon, The stars, and all the expeditious orbs That in their motions are retributive, Look blindly on, and seem to take no note Of any deep and deadly stab of sin-- Let vengeance gorge a gross Cerberean sop, Grovel and snore in swinish sluggardness, Yea, quite forget his dagger and his cup-- It is enough, for any retribution, That guilt retain remembrance of itself. Guilt is a thing, however bolstered up, That the great scale-adjusting Nemesis, And Furies iron-eyed, will not let sleep. Sail on unscarred--thou canst not sail so far, But that the gorgon lash of vipers fanged Shall scourge this howler home to thee again. Yes, yes, rash man, Jove and myself do know That from this wrong shall rouse an Anteros, Fierce as an Ate, with a hot right hand, That shall afflict thee with the touch of fire, Till, scorpion-like, thou turn and sting thyself. What dost thou think--that I shall perish here, Gnawed by the tooth of hungry savageness? Think what thou list, and go what way thou wilt. I, that have truth and heaven on my side, Though but a weak and solitary woman, Forecast no fear of any violence-- But thou, false hound! thou would'st not dare come back, Thou would'st not like to feel my eyes again. Go get thee on, to Argos get thee on; And let thy ransomed Athens run to thee, With portal arms, wide open to her heart-- To stifling hug thee with triumphant joy. Thou canst not wear such bays, thou canst not so O'erpeer the ancient and bald heads of honor, That I would have the back or follow thee. Let nothing but thy shadow follow thee; Thy shadow is to thee a curse enough; For thou hast done a murder on thyself. Thou hast put on the Nessus' fiery hide. Thou hast stepped in the labyrinths of woe, And in thy fingers caught the clue to Death. What solace have the gods for such as thou, That is not stabbed by this one thrust through me? From this black hour, this curse anointing hour, The currents of thy heart are all corrupt; The motions of thy thoughts are serpentine; And thy death-doing and bedabbled soul Is maculate with spots of Erebus. Aye me!--and yet--Oh that I should say so! Thou wast a noble scroll of Beauty's pen, Where every turn was grandly charactered. Hadst thou a heart--but thou hadst no such thing-- And having none, it was not thee I loved; Only my maiden thoughts were perfect, Theseus. O no, no, no, I never did love thee, Thou outside shell and carcase of a man. And I--what was it thou didst take me for? A paroquet of painted shallowness? A silly thing to whistle to and fro, And peck at plums, and then be whistled off? Oh, Theseus, Theseus, thou didst never know me--