Margaret

My mother have I put to death; I’ve drowned the baby born to thee. Was it not given to thee and me? Thee, too!—’Tis thou! It scarcely true doth seem— Give me thy hand! ’Tis not a dream! Thy dear, dear hand!—But, ah, ’tis wet! Why, wipe it off! Methinks that yet There’s blood thereon. Ah, God! what hast thou done? Nay, sheathe thy sword at last! Do not affray me!