Now she would sadly scale the broken faces of mountains,
Whence she might overglance the boundless boiling of billows,
Then she would rush to bestem the salt-plain's quivering wavelet
And from her ankles bare the dainty garment uplifting,
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Spake she these words ('tis said) from sorrow's deepest abysses,
Whiles from her tear-drencht face outburst cold shivering singulfs.
"Thus fro' my patrial shore, O traitor, hurried to exile,
Me on a lonely strand hast left, perfidious Theseus?
Thus wise farest, despite the godhead of Deities spurned,