—’Twas a sore sickness fell on me, nigh unto death it brought me,
And spoiled me of my golden locks, my trimly-set mustachio.’
Lo! they are come; but locked their home, the door fast barred and bolted,
And all the windows of their home in spider-webs enshrouded.
—‘Op’n, prithee, open, mother mine, ’tis Areté thy daughter.’
—‘An thou art Charon, go thy way, for I have no more children;
My one, my little Areté, bides far in the strange country.’
—‘Op’n, prithee, open, mother mine, ’tis Constantine that calls thee;
I made the Saints my witnesses, I gave thee God for surety,
If there hap bitterness or joy, myself would go and bring her.’