Abb. You must go forth, you blaspheme these pure precincts.
Woman, go.
Marg. Nay, drive me not forth, O holy Abbot,
By all you love, revere and hope on earth,
Drive me not forth, tear down this hideous wall
That hides me from my husband, let him know,
’Tis only for a little, little while,
Did he but know our little one was ill,
He’d hasten in the first impulse of sorrow,
At its slight cry, he’d be all shook with pity,