Nor reck the road. 'Tis strange—not that you loved her—
But that I did not dream it must be so,
She being the top and bloom of all her sex,
As you, my lord, of yours. A mortal judge
Would grant you her, but God gave her to me,
And I doubt not He blundered to a purpose
Beyond our dream. Ah me, the night's red eyes
Looked fatal on the sail that bore you hither.
Cursed be my prayers that drew you from your Athens!
Farewell! For you must go. Small Sicily