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THE PRINCESS;
Parted from her—betray'd her cause and mine—Where shall I breathe? why kept ye not your faith? O base and bad! what comfort? none for me!'To whom remorseful Cyril 'Yet I prayTake comfort: live, dear lady, for your child'At which she lifted up her voice and cried.
 'Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah my child, My one sweet child, whom I shall see no more! For now will cruel Ida keep her back;And either she will die from want of care,Or sicken with ill usage, when they sayThe child is hers—for every little fault,The child is hers; and they will beat my girl Remembering her mother: O my flower!Or they will take her, they will make her hard,And she will pass me by in after-lifeWith some cold reverence worse than were she dead. Ill mother that I was to leave her there,To lag behind, scared by the cry they made,
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