Chastelard monologue (Act 3) — Chastelard, a Tragedy

No, by God's body. You will not see? how shall I make you see? Look, it may be love was a sort of curse Made for my plague and mixed up with my days Somewise in their beginning; or indeed A bitter birth begotten of sad stars At mine own body's birth, that heaven might make My life taste sharp where other men drank sweet; But whether in heavy body or broken soul, I know it must go on to be my death. There was the matter of my fate in me When I was fashioned first, and given such life As goes with a sad end; no fault but God's. Yea, and for all this I am not penitent: You see I am perfect in these sins of mine, I have my sins writ in a book to read; Now I shall die and be well done with this. But I am sure you cannot see such things, God knows I blame you not.