MARGARET

Poor thing!

BESSY

Forsooth dost pity her? 
At night, when at our wheels we sat,
Abroad our mothers ne’er would let us stir. 
Then with her lover she must chat,
Or on the bench, or in the dusky walk,
Thinking the hours too brief for their sweet talk;
Her proud head she will have to bow,
And in white sheet do penance now!

MARGARET

But he will surely marry her?

BESSY

Not he! 
He won’t be such a fool! a gallant lad
Like him can roam o’er land and sea;
Besides, he’s off.

MARGARET

 That is not fair!

BESSY

If she should get him, ’twere almost as bad! 
Her myrtle wreath the boys would tear;
And then we girls would plague her too,
For we chopp’d straw before her door would strew!

[Exit.]

MARGARET (walking toward home)

How stoutly once I could inveigh,
If a poor maiden went astray;
Not words enough my tongue could find,
‘Gainst others’ sin to speak my mind! 
Black as it seemed, I blacken’d it still more,
And strove to make it blacker than before. 
And did myself securely bless—­
Now my own trespass doth appear! 
Yet ah!—­what urg’d me to transgress,
God knows, it was so sweet, so dear!

ZWINGER

Inclosure between the City-wall and the Gate. (In the niche of the wall a devotional image of the Mater dolorosa, with flower-pots before it.)

MARGARET (putting fresh flowers in the pots)

 Ah, rich in sorrow, thou,
 Stoop thy maternal brow,
 And mark with pitying eye my misery! 
 The sword in thy pierced heart,
 Thou dost with bitter smart
 Gaze upwards on thy Son’s death agony. 
 To the dear God on high
 Ascends thy piteous sigh,
 Pleading for his and thy sore misery.

 Ah, who can know
 The torturing woe,
 The pangs that rack me to the bone? 
 How my poor heart, without relief,
 Trembles and throbs, its yearning grief
 Thou knowest, thou alone!

 Ah, wheresoe’er I go,
 With woe, with woe, with woe,
 My anguish’d breast is aching! 
 When all alone I creep,
 I weep, I weep, I weep,
 Alas! my heart is breaking!

 The flower-pots at my window
 Were wet with tears of mine,
 The while I pluck’d these blossoms
 At dawn to deck thy shrine!

 When early in my chamber
 Shone bright the rising morn,
 I sat there on my pallet,
 My heart with anguish torn.

 Help! from disgrace and death deliver me! 
 Ah! rich in sorrow, thou,
 Stoop thy maternal brow,
 And mark with pitying eye my misery!