Lureful is she, bent for folly;
Doating on the child which crows:
Yours to teach him grace in fealty,
What the bloom is, what the rose.
XIX
Hard the task: your prison-chamber
Widens not for lifted latch
Till the giant thews and sinews
Meet their Godlike overmatch.
XX
Read that riddle, scorning pity’s
Tears, of cockatrices shed:
When the heart is vowed for freedom,
Captaincy it yields to head.
XXI
Meanwhile you, freaked nature’s martyrs,
Honour’s army, flower and weed,
Gentle ladies, wedded ladies,
See for you this fair one bleed.
XXII
Sole stood her offence, she faltered;
Prayed her lord the youth to spare;
Prayed that in the orange garden
She might lie, and ceased her prayer.