The expectancy of proud assault; she was
As one who lives for a last carnival
[193] ]Of love, in which she may be stabbed and torn
By large excess of passion.
Charmion. Oh! Our Queen
Has wine for blood; her tears are heavy drops
Of water stolen from some brackish sea
Or murderous waves; her heart now leaps with life
And now lies sleeping like a coilèd snake.
But in to-night’s cold moon she burns and glows;