Gravely intent, their game of knuckle-bones;
Or tossed from hand to hand the old dry cones
Littered about the tree. And one did sing
A ballad of some far-off Spartan king,
Who took a wife, but left her, well-away!
Slain by his foes upon their wedding-day.
“That was a piteous story,” Leda sighed,
“To be a widow ere she was a bride.”
“Better,” said one, “to live a virgin life
Alone, and never know the name of wife