I

O what is this you've done to me, Or what have I done, That bare should be our fair roof-tree, And I all alone? 'Tis worse than widow I become More than desolate, To face a worse than empty home Without child or mate.

'Twas not my strife askt him his life When it was but begun, Nor mine, I was a new-made wife And now I am none; Nor mine that many a sapless ghost Wails in sorrow-fare— But this does cost my pride the most, That bloodshedding to share.

Image of streaming eyes, tear-gleaming, Of women foiled and defeat, I am like Christ shockt out of dreaming, Showing His hands and feet; Showing His feet and hands to God, Saying, "Are these in vain? For men I have trod the sorrowful road, And by them I am slain."

Seeing I have a breast in common, I must share in that shame, Since from the womb of some poor woman Each evil one came— Every hot and blundering thought, Every hag-rid will, And every haut king pride-distraught That drove men out to kill.

A woman's womb did fashion him, Her bosom was his nurse, And many women's eyes are dim To see their sons a curse. Had I the wit some women have To one such I would say, "Think you this love the good Lord gave Is yours to take away?"

O Hand divine that for a sign Didst bend the rose-red bow, Betokening wrath was no more Thine With man's Cain-branded brow— What now, O Lord, shouldst Thou accord To such a shameful brood? A bow as crimson as the sword Which men have soakt in blood.