It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul.​
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars.
It is the cause. Yet I’ll not shed her blood,​
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster. ––
Yet she must die, else she’ll betray more men.​
Put out the light, and then put out the light.:
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,​
I can again thy former light restore,​
Should I repent me; but once put out thy light,​
Thou cunning’st pattern of excelling nature,​
I know not where is that Promethean heat​
That can thy light relume. When I have plucked the rose,​