She knew, thence, he was angered;--will had of his own; She burst in tears. Was ever woman tearless known? 150 Quoth she: “I’d never thought from thee such words to hear; Far different had I hoped; knew not I’d aught to fear.” She made herself most servile, thing of small amount; Remarked: “Thy humble servant am I; so me count. My soul and body, all I have, ’s at thy command; Sole arbiter art thou; dispose; I’ll not withstand, If I of poverty impatiently complained, Not for myself, for thee, was our sad lot disdained. In all afflictions thou our remedy hast been; I grieve to see thee want; my anguish thence grows keen. 155 Dear, darling spouse! For thee was all my deep dismay; My sighs and moans for thee came into bitter play. I call my God to witness, in my heart and mind, I’m ready life to lay down, if thou’rt so inclined. O that thy heart,--the life with which my soul’s endued,— Could trace aright the channel by my thoughts pursued! If merely through suspicion thou art vexed with me, My life I value not; breath,--body’s naught! Just see. I scorn all gold and silver, count them less than dirt, If they to thee bring anguish. No! I’m no such flirt. 160 Thine is the only picture painted on my heart; And canst thou talk of leaving me, from home depart? Discard me, if thou wilt. Thou hast the right and power, O thou for whose divorce excuse I make each hour! Recall to mind the time when I thy idol was, And thou, priest-like, didst worship me! Alas! Alas! My heart I cultivated just as thou desiredst. Thou thoughtest ’twas fond. I knew thou it with love inspiredst. Like potherbs o’er the fire, thou addedst what thou wouldst, Sharp vinegar, or honey. What thou wishedst, thou couldst. 165 If blasphemy I’ve uttered, lo, I faith profess! My life is in thy hands; but, be not pitiless! I wot not thou wouldst prove imperious, like a king; So, like an ass turned loose, before thee took my fling. Thy pardon now I crave. Let me know joy again! Contention I forswear, repentance I maintain. With sword and winding-sheet I fall at my lord’s feet; Should he decapitate me, death to me’ll be sweet. Thou’st talked of separation;--bitter, worse than gall; Do what thou will with me, that hideous word recall. 170 In thee, for me, a pleader ever will be found; If I be mute, thou’lt still hear intercession’s sound. My potent advocate is, in thyself, thy heart; Relying upon that, I dared to sin, with art. Have mercy slily,--see thy grace thyself not, Lord! To me far sweeter than a honeycomb full stored!”