[Enter Angel]

O, that this too too solid flesh would melt
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!
How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,
That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely. That it should come to this!

O, my offence is rank it smells to heaven;
Though inclination be as sharp as will:
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent;
And, like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin,
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens
To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy
But to confront the visage of offence?
My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer
Can serve my turn? 'Forgive me my foul murder'?
That cannot be; since I could still possess
That cause for which I did effect a murderous state,
My powers, mine own ambition and my lady Slayer.
Try what repentance can: what can it not?
Yet what can it when one can not repent?
O wretched state! O bosom black as death!
O limed soul, that, struggling to be free,
Art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay!
Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart with strings of steel,
Be soft as sinews of the newborn babe!
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below:
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.

Now might I do it pat, now he is praying;
And now I'll do't. And so he goes to heaven;
And so upon the Lady Jenny’s blood am I revenged.
However, Watcher’s cannot dally where they like.

A word lord.

I thought I heard you say, sleep no more,
Angel does murder sleep', the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast,--

That was not my intention, I had another speech,
As Watcher to a Slayer, the mission is the thing,
As like a father to a girl, I ask, following this peril,
which way do your intentions wend?

I love Buffy with so much of my heart that none is
left to protest.

Buffy is young, and it is common for the younger sort
To lack discretion, it is then upon you to see the dangers

That lie by the primrose path of dalliance treads.

O God, I could be bounded in a nut shell and count
myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I
have bad dreams.