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Monologues for Women


He has mistook the brake I meant, is gone

After his fancy. ’Tis now well-nigh morning;

No matter, would it were perpetual night,

And darkness lord o’ th’ world! Hark, ’tis a wolf!

In me hath grief slain fear, and but for one thing,

I care for nothing, and that’s Palamon.

I reak not if the wolves would jaw me, so

He had this file. What if I hallow’d for him?

I cannot hallow. If I whoop’d, what then?

If he not answer’d, I should call a wolf,

And do him but that service. I have heard

Strange howls this livelong night; why may’t not be

They have made prey of him? He has no weapons,

He cannot run, the jingling of his gyves

Might call fell things to listen, who have in them

A sense to know a man unarm’d, and can

Smell where resistance is. I’ll set it down

He’s torn to pieces. They howl’d many together,

And then they fed on him. So much for that,

Be bold to ring the bell. How stand I then?

All’s char’d when he is gone. No, no, I lie:

My father’s to be hang’d for his escape,

Myself to beg, if I priz’d life so much

As to deny my act, but that I would not,

Should I try death by dozens. I am mop’d:

Food took I none these two days—

Sipp’d some water. I have not clos’d mine eyes

Save when my lids scour’d off their brine. Alas,

Dissolve, my life, let not my sense unsettle

Lest I should drown, or stab, or hang myself.

O state of nature, fail together in me,

Since thy best props are warp’d! So which way now?

The best way is, the next way to a grave;

Each errant step beside is torment. Lo

The moon is down, the crickets chirp, the screech-owl

Calls in the dawn! All offices are done

Save what I fail in. But the point is this—

An end, and that is all.

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