His sword laid by him on the bloody bed

Would be convictive that his own hand had

Done him this violence when fever-mad.

The sword she took; and to the chamber, where

King Urience slept, she glided; like an air,

Smooth in seductive sendal; or a fit

Of faery song, a wicked charm in it,

That slays; an incantation full of guile.

She paused upon his threshold; for a while

Listened; and, sure he slept, stole in and stood