My thought aches at him; not the basilisk
More deadly to the sight than is to me
The cool injurious eye of frozen kindness.
I will not meet its poison. Let him feel
Before he sees me. Yes, I will be gone,
But not to Antium — all shall be confessed,
Whate'er the frivolous tongue of giddy fame
Has spread among the crowd; things that but whispered
Have arched the hearer's brow and riveted
His eyes in fearful ecstasy: no matter
What, so it be strange, and dreadful. — Sorceries,
Assassinations, poisonings; the deeper
My guilt, the blacker his ingratitude.