ALMACHILDES.
King, nor her.
ALBOVINE.
Fall then to feasting. Bear the cup away.
Some savour of the dust of death comes from it.
Sweet, be not wroth nor sad.
ROSAMUND.
I am blithe and fain,
Sire; and I loved thee never more than now.
ALBOVINE.
Nor ever I thee. Now I find thee mine,
And now no daughter of mine enemy’s.
ROSAMUND.
No.
Thou hast no enemy left on earth alive—
No soul unslain that hates thee.