That on the poorest lord her favour fell—
Angry and wrath, cried, “Foolish daughter, know,
Your idle words like running water flow,
And matter nothing, until I have willed.”
“Father,” cried Ivorine, “I am your child;
And yet, alas! through my words must you die.
Yes; for know well that God who dwells on high
Hates those who own him not: and so hates you.
That lying demon whom you hold for true,
And so teach others, has deceived your heart.