THE BLAMELESS PRINCE
Wherewith he dulled what appetite is born,
Of the gross kind, in men. His nobler mood
You knew not! How, shall I,—the fountain life
Of yonder children,—his embosomed wife,
"Through all these years,—shall I, his Queen, for this
Sin-smitten harlot's gage of an hour's shame,
Misdoubt him?"—"Yes, I was his harlot,—yes,
God help me! and had worn the loathly name
Before the world, to have him in that guise!"
"Thou strumpet! wilt thou have me of his prize
"Rob Satan?" cried the Queen, and one step moved.
"Queen, if you loved him, save me from your bane,
As something that was dear to him you loved!"
Then from beneath her serge she took the chain
Which, long ago in that lone wood, the Prince
Hung round her,—she had never loosed it since,—
And gave therewith the face which, in its years
Of youthful, sunniest grace, a limner drew;
And unsigned letters, darkened with her tears,
Writ in the hand that hapless sovereign knew
Too well;—then told the whole, strange, secret tale,
As if with Heaven that penance could avail,
Or with the Queen, who heard as idols list
The mad priest's cry, nor changed her place nor moaned.
But, clutching those mute tokens of each tryst,
Hid them about her. But the other groaned:
"The picture,—let me see it ere I die,—
Then take them all! once, only!"—At that cry
The Queen strode forward with an awful stride,
And seized the dying one, and bore her down,
And rose her height, and said, "Thou shouldst have died
Ere telling this, nor I have worn a crown
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