LVIII.
"Take this same book,—it will not bite you, sire;
There, put underneath your royal arm;
Though it's a pretty weight, it will not tire,
But rather on your journey keep you warm:
This is the magic, this the potent charm,
That shall drive Bertha to a fainting fit!
When the time comes, don't feel the least alarm,
But lift her from the ground, and swiftly flit
Back to your palace.
LIX.
"What shall I do with that same book?" "Why merely
Lay it on Bertha's table, close beside
Her work-box, and 'twill help your purpose dearly;
I say no more." "Or good or ill betide,
Through the wide air to Kent this morn I glide!"
Exclaim'd the Emperor, "When I return,
Ask what you will,—I'll give you my new bride!
And take some more wine, Hum;—O, Heavens! I burn
To be upon the wing! Now, now, that minx I spurn!"
LX.
"Leave her to me," rejoined the magian:
"But how shall I account, illustrious fay!
For thine imperial absence? Pho! I can
Say you are very sick, and bar the way
