There was a star danced, and under that was I born.
Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?
Conceal me what I am, and be my aid for such disguise as haply shall become the form of my intent.
Where hateful Death put on his ugliest mask.
What the vengeance, could he not speak 'em fair?
Cursed be the hand that made these fatal holes.