BEATRICE: 
Ay, death... 125
The punishment of crime.  I pray thee, God,
Let me not be bewildered while I judge. 
If I must live day after day, and keep
These limbs, the unworthy temple of Thy spirit,
As a foul den from which what Thou abhorrest 130
May mock Thee, unavenged...it shall not be! 
Self-murder...no, that might be no escape,
For Thy decree yawns like a Hell between
Our will and it:—­O!  In this mortal world
There is no vindication and no law 135
Which can adjudge and execute the doom
Of that through which I suffer.
[ENTER ORSINO.]
[SHE APPROACHES HIM SOLEMNLY.]
Welcome, Friend! 
I have to tell you that, since last we met,
I have endured a wrong so great and strange,
That neither life nor death can give me rest. 140
Ask me not what it is, for there are deeds
Which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue.

NOTE: 
140 nor edition 1821; or editions 1819, 1839 (1st).

ORSINO: 
And what is he who has thus injured you?

BEATRICE: 
The man they call my father:  a dread name.

ORSINO: 
It cannot be...

BEATRICE: 
What it can be, or not, 145
Forbear to think.  It is, and it has been;
Advise me how it shall not be again. 
I thought to die; but a religious awe
Restrains me, and the dread lest death itself
Might be no refuge from the consciousness 150
Of what is yet unexpiated.  Oh, speak!

ORSINO: 
Accuse him of the deed, and let the law
Avenge thee.

BEATRICE: 
Oh, ice-hearted counsellor! 
If I could find a word that might make known
The crime of my destroyer; and that done, 155
My tongue should like a knife tear out the secret
Which cankers my heart’s core; ay, lay all bare,
So that my unpolluted fame should be
With vilest gossips a stale mouthed story;
A mock, a byword, an astonishment:—­ 160
If this were done, which never shall be done,
Think of the offender’s gold, his dreaded hate,
And the strange horror of the accuser’s tale,
Baffling belief, and overpowering speech;
Scarce whispered, unimaginable, wrapped 165
In hideous hints...Oh, most assured redress!

ORSINO: 
You will endure it then?

BEATRICE: 
Endure!—­Orsino,
It seems your counsel is small profit.
[TURNS FROM HIM, AND SPEAKS HALF TO HERSELF.]
Ay,
All must be suddenly resolved and done. 
What is this undistinguishable mist 170
Of thoughts, which rise, like shadow after shadow,
Darkening each other?