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And bid me still to pause? (setting down the lamp.) But wherefore pause? This deed must be, or, like a scared thief Who starts and trembles o'er his grasped store At ev'ry breezy whisper of the night, I now must wear this crown, which I have bought With brave men's blood, in fields of battle shed. Ah! would that all it cost had there been shed! This deed must be; for like a haggard ghost His image haunts me wheresoe'er I move, And will not let me rest. His love hath been to me my bosom's sting; His gen'rous trust hath gnaw'd me like a worm. Oh would a sweltring snake had wreath'd my neck When first his arms embraced me! He is by fortune made my bane, my curse, And, were he gentle as the breast of love, I needs must crush him. Prison'd or free, where'er he breathes, lives one Whom Ethwaid fears. Alas! this thing must be, From th' imaged form of which I still have shrunk, And started back as from my fancy's fiend. The dark and silent cope of night is o'er us, When vision'd horrours, thro' perturbed sleep, Harden to deeds of blood the dreamer's breast; When from the nether world fell demons rise To guide with lurid flames the murd'rer's way: I'll wake him now; should morning dawn upon me