THE GOD.
Ay, now the flicker of a nauseate smile
Bestirs thy cheek and wan lips imbecile;
Thy pale plucked blossom droops; its day is done.
THE DAMOSEL.
Nay, let me deck my bosom therewithal,
It were ill-ominous to let it fall,
The faithful mistress of Hyperion Sun.
THE GOD.
Stoop thou, what ails thee, child, to shudder? stoop and brush