His own were pouted to a kiss:

The blush is fix’d upon her cheek.

V.

Till all the hundred summers pass,

The beams that thro’ the Oriel shine,

Make prisms in every carven glass, 35

And beaker brimm’d with noble wine.

Each baron at the banquet sleeps,

Grave faces gather’d in a ring.

His state the king reposing keeps,