No love where there is any guilt! O God, How differently do we love from men! There is many a woman here in Padua, Some workman’s wife, or ruder artisan’s, Whose husband spends the wages of the week In a coarse revel, or a tavern brawl, And reeling home late on the Saturday night, Finds his wife sitting by a fireless hearth, Trying to hush the child who cries for hunger, And then sets to and beats his wife because The child is hungry, and the fire black. Yet the wife loves him! and will rise next day With some red bruise across a careworn face, And sweep the house, and do the common service, And try and smile, and only be too glad If he does not beat her a second time Before her child!—that is how women love. I think you will not drive me from your side. Where have I got to go if you reject me?— You for whose sake this hand has murdered life, You for whose sake my soul has wrecked itself Beyond all hope of pardon.

Duchess Monologue from The Duchess of Padua

Rehearse Duchess's monologue