Fair
is foul, and foul is fair:
Hover through the fog and filthy air.
But
'tis strange:
And
oftentimes, to win us to our harm,
The
instruments of darkness tell us truths,
Win
us with honest trifles, to betray's
In deepest consequence.
Two
truths are told,
As
happy prologues to the swelling act
Of the imperial theme.
How
tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me:
I
would, while it was smiling in my face,
Have
pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums,
And
dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you
Have done to this.
That,
when the brains were out, the man would die,
And
there an end; but now they rise again,
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns
And push us from our stools: this is more
strange
Than such a murder is.
Here's
the smell of the blood still: all the
perfumes
of Arabia will not sweeten this little
hand. Oh, oh, oh!
