And a baby every year.
“The Pagan swore that his slave should die
By slash ‘cross her milk-white throat,
Her body sewed in a sack by night
Be dropped in his harem moat.
I likewise ordered my slave should die
But I did the thing with art:
I ground my spleen to a rapier point
And stabbed till I found her heart.
“The Pagan slept when his slave was dead,