Who, while her pot boils, says—Come here my child;
I’ll tell thee a story of my wedding-day!
Vic. Nay, listen, for my heart is full; so full
That I must speak.
Hyp. Alas! that heart of thine
Is like a scene in the old play—the curtain
Rises to solemn music, and, lo! enter
The eleven thousand Virgins of Cologne!
Vic. Nay, like the Sibyl’s volumes, thou shouldst say;
Those that remained, after the six were burned,