PRAXITHEA.
Child, my child that wast and art but death's and now no more of mine,
870 Half my heart is cloven with anguish by the sword made sharp for thine,
Half exalts its wing for triumph, that I bare thee thus divine.
Child, my child that wast and art but death's and now no more of mine,
870 Half my heart is cloven with anguish by the sword made sharp for thine,
Half exalts its wing for triumph, that I bare thee thus divine.