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THE PRINCESS;
As fancies like the vermin in a nut Have fretted all to dust and bitterness.'So said the small king moved beyond his wont.
 But Ida stood nor spoke, drain'd of her force By many a varying influence and so long.Down thro' her limbs a drooping languor wept: Her head a little bent; and on her mouth A doubtful smile dwelt like a clouded moon In a still water: then brake out my sire Lifting his grim head from my wounds. 'O you, Woman, whom we thought woman even now, And were half fool'd to let you tend our son, Because he might have wish'd it—but we see The accomplice of your madness unforgiven, And think that you might mix his draught with death, When your skies change again: the rougher handIs safer: on to the tents: take up the prince.'
 He rose, and while each ear was prick'd to attend
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