glad enough she had a child, but when I said it was a girl
it seemed to sting him. Well, well! God help the women; we are
unwelcome when we come, abused while we stay, and driven hence with
ill-usage.

_Roger._ Adulteress! That cannot be! There's some
Mistake, or some deceit in this. Her great
Nobility of heart would take upon
Herself another's wrong. I'll take an oath
The babe they say is hers she never bore!

_Ursula._ 'Tis surely hers, for I delivered her.

_Roger._ Hester! Hester! O, my God! My Hester!
Woman, didst thou say that she is married?

_Ursula._ Nay, I said she is a widow, sir.

_Roger._ Who is her paramour?

_Ursula._ I do not know. [_Busies herself removing tankards._

_Roger._ [_Aside_] Now is my honored name dragged in the dust
By her to whom I did confide its keeping;
And she herself, my cherished wife, upraised
Upon a pedestal of shameful guilt
For filthy mouths to spit their venom at.
Slowly now. Whatever haps I'll be
Cornelius Tacitus for the nonce, nor brave
My state with that true name which marks me out
As Publius Cornutus. I must have time to think.
[_To Ursula_] Get me more wine. Prepare a room for me.

_Ursula._ Aye, sir. [_Going._]

_Roger._ Where is this trial held?

_Ursula._ Sir, at the Market place, three crossings up
The street and to the left.

_Roger._ I thank thee. Go. [_Exit Ursula._
Why was the banishment of tyrant fate
Annulled by vigorous will? and why should I,
For whom the jaws of death unhinged themselves,
Escape from shipwreck, war, and pestilence,
And here attain my journey's end at last,
But that such evil deaths were much too mild
To gratify the fury that pursues me!
I was reserved for this last ignominy
As in despite of human purposes;
Robbed of mine honor where most I placed my trust
And reap this pain where most I sowed for peace.
Was it for this that I did marry her?
Was it for this I sent her here before me?
For this I nursed the holy purposes
Of wedded purity, o'ercame the shocks
Of human destiny, and held in check
The inward passions of the baser man?
For this--to be cornuted in mine age
And die a by-word?
My purposes! My purposes! O, God!
Our purposes are little nine-pins
Which fate's sure aim bowls down incessantly:
As fast as we can set them up, events
Roll down the narrow alleys of our lives,
Rumbling like distant