I decided that Browning was too much of a stretch, so I have tried reworking it to Byron's "The Destruction of Sennacherib."
Byron’s Lady Macbeth (1.5.38-54)
The dear monarch trots up like a lamb to the fold,
With his mantle of purple and circlet of gold,
And the raven is hoarse as he croaks the approach
To my castle of Duncan, that royal slow coach.
So come, all you spirits that tend on things human,
Unsex me! I’ve had it with being a woman.
Extinguish compunction and stop up remorse
To allow my fell purpose to follow its course.
You murdering ministers, come to my call
And convert all the milk in my bosom to gall.
Pour your cruelty into me. Give me my fill,
So the eyes of the sleeper, once closed, will stay still.
Come, spirits of mischief! Come, thick night, as well,
In a cloak of dun smoke from the caverns of hell,
So the wound that it makes won’t be seen by my knife,
Nor the heavens cry “Hold!” as I take Duncan’s life.
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