'Tis very sad! Oh very--very sad! Pray you go on! Who is this woman? _Grace_. I have never learned. I only know she stole my husband's heart, And made me very wretched. I suppose That at the time my little babe was born, She went away; for David was at home For many days. That pain was bliss to me-- I need no argument to teach me that-- Which caused neglect of her, and gave offense. Since then, he has not where to go from me; And, loving well his child, he stays at home. So he lugs round his secret, and I mine. I call him husband; and he calls me wife; And I, who once was like an April day, That finds quick tears in every cloud, have steeled My heart against my fate, and now am calm. I will live on; and though these simple folk Who call me sister understand me not, It matters little. There is one who does; And he shall have no liberty of love By any word of mine. 'Tis woman's lot, And man's most weak and wicked wantonness. Mine is like other husbands, I suppose; No worse--no better. _Mary_. Ask you sympathy Of such as I? I cannot give it you, For you have shut me from the privilege. _Grace_. I asked it once; you gave me unbelief. I had no choice but to grow hard again. 'Tis my misfortune and my misery That every hand whose friendly ministry My poor heart craves, is held--withheld--by him; And I must freeze that I may stand alone. _Mary_. And so, because one man is false, or you Imagine him to be, all men are false; Do I speak rightly? _Grace_. Have it your own way. Men fit to love, and fitted to be loved, Are prone to falsehood. I will not gainsay The common virtue of the common herd. I prize it as I do the goodish men Who hold the goodish stuff, and know it not. These serve to fill an easy-going world, And that to clothe it with complacency. _Mary_. I had not thought misanthropy like this Could lodge with you; so I must e'en confess A tale which never passed my lips before, Nor sent its flush to any cheek but mine. In this, I'll prove my friendship, if I lose The friendship which demands the sacrifice.