My princess, art thou there? Sweet, ’tis too late.
To bed and sleep; my fever is gone by;
To-night my page shall keep me company.
Where do the children sleep? Kiss them for me.
Poor child, thou art almost as pale as I;
This comes of nursing long and watching late.
To bed—good night.
And so (our poet passing without notice from Tristram’s semidramatic musings and talkings to his own not more coherent narrative)—
She left the gleam-lit fireplace,
She came to the bed-side;