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- Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts. Take all my femininity away and fill me from the crown to the toe top full of direst cruelty. Make thick my blood,
- stop me from feeling pity so that no natural feelings can get in the way.’
- Come to my woman’s breasts, And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers, wherever in your sightless substances you wait on nature’s mischief! Come, thick night, and pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, to cry ‘Hold, hold!’
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