Hyp. Not much.
What, think’st thou, is she doing at this moment—
Now, while we speak of her?
Vic. She lies asleep,
And, from her parted lips, her gentle breath
Comes like the fragrance from the lips of flowers.
Her delicate limbs are still, and on her breast
The cross she pray’d to, e’er she fell asleep,
Rises and falls with the soft tide of dreams,
Like a light barge safe moor’d.