My name, that was as fresh
As Dian's visage, is now begrimed and black
As mine own face. (3.3.54)
All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven.
Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell! (3.3.63)
Yet I'll not shed her blood;
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.
Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men.
Put out the light, and then put out the light:
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore. (5.2.1)