O, my offence is rank it smells to heaven;It hath the primal eldest curse upon't,A brother's murder. Pray can I not,Though inclination be as sharp as 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 cursed handWere thicker than itself with brother's blood,Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavensTo wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercyBut to confront the visage of offence?And what's in prayer but this two-fold force,To be forestalled ere we come to fall,Or pardon'd being down? Then I'll look up;My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayerCan serve my turn? 'Forgive me my foul murder'?That cannot be; since I am still possess'dOf those effects for which I did the murder,My crown, mine own ambition and my queen.May one be pardon'd and retain the offence?In the corrupted currents of this worldOffence's gilded hand may shove by justice,And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itselfBuys out the law: but 'tis not so above;There is no shuffling, there the action liesIn 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 engaged! Help, angels! Make assay!Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart with strings of steel,Be soft as sinews of the newborn babe!All may be well.

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