Margery. He'll certainly take her for his wife.
Lizzy. He'd be a fool! A spruce young blade Has room enough to ply his trade. Besides, he's gone.
Margery. Now, that's not fair!
Lizzy. If she gets him, her lot'll be hard to bear. The boys will tear up her wreath, and what's more, We'll strew chopped straw before her door.
[Exit.]
Margery [going home]. Time was when I, too, instead of bewailing,
Could boldly jeer at a poor girl's failing!
When my scorn could scarcely find expression
At hearing of another's transgression!
How black it seemed! though black as could be,
It never was black enough for me.
I blessed my soul, and felt so high,
And now, myself, in sin I lie!
Yet—all that led me to it, sure,
O God! it was so dear, so pure!
DONJON.[27]
[In a niche a devotional image of the Mater Dolorosa, before it pots of flowers.]
MARGERY [puts fresh flowers into the pots].
Ah, hear me,
Draw kindly near me,
Mother of sorrows, heal my woe!
Sword-pierced, and stricken
With pangs that sicken,
Thou seest thy son's last life-blood flow!