Young Macbeth

Are these her breasts which I see before me,
Their nipples toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not and yet I see thee still,
And am sore taunted by thy proud sphericity.
What agony, what unbound grief, to see thee deck
A maid so lovely fair, who spurns my very breath
As it were foulest poison. How is't she stays
So cold, so hateful of my eager touch,
My timid trembling hands that crave caress,
My amorous lips that long to make so full a meal
Of thy sweet aureoles that she would gasp withal
And swoon upon these sunny fields with joy?
O precious pair, is it my fate, my bane,
My hateful destiny, to never know
Thy sweet tactility, is it my lot,
When I am dead, my soul ripped from my flesh
And dragged untimely down to Hell's deep depths,
To stare at you, tormented till I howl,
To have you there, an inch away from reach,
And ridicule my lust for all eternity?
Hence from my sight sweet orbs, be gone from me
You nippled tits, or I will take in sweating hand
My now bared bodkin and relieve my pain.