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A gliding form is seen, nor tall, nor short, Nor having any mark by which to prove It is or is not any woman breathing; And thou in thy diseased conceit hast shaped

Thou speak'st in ignorance: I have good cause— Cause which thou know'st not of. I'll tell thee more When I have breath to speak. My dame, my wife, she whom I made my wife, Hath secret myst'ries—hath a beldame Nurse— Hath one conceal'd to whom she sends—O shame!— Outrageous, frontless shame! the very picture Which I have gazed upon a thousand times, Tears in my eyes, and blessings on my lips. How little thought I once—vain, vain remembrance! It is a thing most strange if she be honest.

How strange?—that thou thyself shouldst be deceived As many men have been, which is a marvel Of daily note, amongst the sons of Adam.

Deceived! be there witch-powder in mine eyes, To make that seen which is not; in mine ears,