It may be so, my lord. Hear, nature, hear; dear goddess, hear! Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend To make this creature fruitful! Into her womb convey sterility! Dry up in her the organs of increase; And from her derogate body never spring A babe to honour her! If she must teem, Create her child of spleen; that it may live, And be a thwart disnatured torment to her! Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth; With cadent tears fret channels in her
cheeks; Turn all her mother's pains and benefits To laughter and contempt; that she may feel How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is To have a thankless child! Away, away!
Today! My lord, That might be true Dear Nature, my true goddess, hear me now. If your plans were for this woman to bear children, please change them. Make her sterile! Dry up her reproductive organs and never let her have a child to which would give her honor. If you do give her a child Nature, make it an awful one that torments her always. Make it so the child gives her wrinkles on her young face; Make it so the child causes her to cry so much, that her cheeks become sunken. Make it an awful child, who laughs, mocks, and treats with scorn
the mother that cares for it Make my daughter feel how a thankless child feels worse than a snake bite. Now let’s leave! Onward go!