Abiathar. Then from your craving put her—wide; she is
Unworthy any tremor of your veins.
David. Dawn-lilies under dew are then unworthy,
And nesting doves are horrible to heaven.
I will not so believe. Your reason?
Abiathar. Saul
Has given her—and she will wed him, aye—
To Phalti, a new lord.
David. Untrue of her!
Abiathar. Cry. Yet you will believe it.
David. Not until
The parable of verdant spring is hushed
Ever of bloom, to prove it. Never till
Hermon is swung into the sea! until
The last void of the everlasting sky—
(Looking up, falters, breaks off, and is strangely moved.)
Abiathar. Now what alarm?
Abishai. What stare you on?
Abiathar. He's mad?