What am I changed to?
What do I here, list'ning like to an abject, Or heartless wittol, that must hear no good, If he hear aught?
"This shall to the ear of your husband." It was the Widow's word.

I guess'd some mystery, And the solution with a vengeance comes.
What can my wife have left untold to me, That must be told by proxy?
I begin To call in doubt the course of her life past Under my very eyes.

She hath not been good, Not virtuous, not discreet; she hath not outrun My wishes still with prompt and meek observance.
Perhaps she is not fair, sweet-voiced; her eyes Not like the dove's; all this as well may be, As that she should entreasure up a secret In the peculiar closet of her breast, And grudge it to my ear.

It is my right To claim the halves in any truth she owns, As much as in the babe I have by her; Upon whose face henceforth I fear to look, Lest I should fancy in its innocent brow Some strange shame written.
_Enter_ LUCY.
Sister, an anxious word with you.
From out the chamber, where my wife but now Held talk with her encroaching friend, I heard (Not of set purpose heark'ning, but by chance) A voice of chiding, answer'd by a tone Of replication, such as the meek dove Makes, when the kite has clutch'd her.

The high Widow Was loud and stormy.