Excuses, prayers, and pledges that were oaths
(What he, poor boaster, thought I could not see),
That he was shorn of will, and that his heart
Was as defenseless as a little child's;--
That underneath his fair good fellowship
He was debauched, and dead in love with sin;--
That love of me had made him what I loved,--
That I could only hold him till the wave
Of some overwhelming impulse should sweep in,
To lift his feet and bear him from my arms.
I felt that morn, when he went trembling forth,
With bloodshot eyes and forehead hot with woe,
That henceforth strife would be 'twixt Hell and me--
The odds against me--for my husband's soul.

_Grace_.

Poor dove! Poor Mary! Have you suffered thus?
You had not even pride to keep you up.
Were he my husband, I had left him then--
The ingrate!

_Mary_.

Not if you had loved as I;
Yet what you know is but a bitter drop
Of the full cup of gall that I have drained.
Had he left me unstained,--had I rebelled
Against the influence by which he sought
To bring me to a compromise with him,--