In mid sea proudly sailing on,
Their topsails in the clouds.
But why with pallid face, in fear,700
Like some Bacchante smitten sore
With madness, comes our princess forth?
What new reverse of fortune's wheel
Has come to vex thy tortured soul?
For though thou speakest ne'er a word, poor queen,
Whate'er thou hidest, in thy face is seen.