Beneath her conscious thought; for she would win
Only your benison and not your bounty,
She would but thank, naught would she supplicate.
The Woman, too, needed no ghostly dream
Like that which smote the Tyndarid with horror,
To monish her of duty’s holy bond;
She came herself and decked the altar round
And yet—why dedicates a mortal man
To you the choicest part of all his goods
If ye show not the gracious will to shield