Have I not reason, beldams, as you are,
In riddles and affairs of death?
And I the mistress of your charms,
The close contriver of all harms,
Was never called to bear my part
And which is worse, all you have done
Hath been but for a wayward son,
Spiteful and wrathful, who, as others do,
Loves for his own ends, not for you.
But make amends now. Get you gone,
And at the pit of Acheron
Meet me i' th' morning. |