Classic Poem

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 pluck'd the rose,
I cannot give it vital growth again,
It needs must wither:--I'll smell it on the tree.--
[kissing her]

O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade
Justice to break her sword!--One more, one more:--
Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,
And love thee after:--one more, and this the last:
So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep,
But they are cruel tears: this sorrow's heavenly;
It strikes where it doth love.--She wakes.