Ar. Not God nor any can give thee succor now.
Thy husband dead to thee forever more,
Choose! Black Starvation knocketh at thy door!
Pity thy child if thou wilt not thyself.
I have long loved thee, Margaret, trust to me,
Bethink thee of thy child.
Marg. Out! out! Blasphemer! If the Church be vile,
If justice be swept from earth and pity dead,
Though devils walk this world, though God be gone,
Know, there be left one righteous woman’s scorn