Is this all the love that he bore me, my husband, to publish my face
To the nobles of Media and Persia, whose hearts are besotted and base?
Did he think me a slave, me, Vashti, the Beautiful, me, Queen of queens,
To summon me thus for a show to the midst of his bacchanal scenes?
I stand like an image of brass, I, Vashti, in sight of such men!
No, sooner, a thousand times sooner, the mouth of the lioness’ den,
When she’s fiercest with hunger and love for the hungry young lions that tear
Her teats with sharp, innocent teeth, I would enter, far rather than here!
Did he love me, or is he, too, though the King, but a brute like the rest!