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POTIPHAR'S WIFE
Deeming the boy relenting, sheathed her blade, And with close-winding arms a warm chain made
XLI.About his beating breast, and drew him down Against her mouth, and dragged "nay! nay!" away In such a cleaving kiss his sense did swoon,His tongue, shut in with honey, naught could say;His eyes, meeting her eyes, such fierce flame tookThey dropped their lids not to be lightning-strook.
XLII.Then, while he sank back, will-less, on the silk, She rose, of triumph sure, and deftly drew Prom her smooth shoulders,—brown and smooth as milk With palm-wine mixed—that scarf of purple hue Veiling her bosom's splendours; this she bore,Quick-tripping, to the niche beside the door,
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