HEBE
Had been made to feel, with lash that scored
And eye that cowed them, a snarling hour;—
(They were just in the mood for pleasantry
Of those holidays when saints were thrown
To beasts, and the Romans, entrance-free,
Clapped hands;)—that night, as she stood alone,
Florina, Queen of the Lions, called
Sir Marco toward her, while her hand
Still touched the spring of a door that walled
Her subjects safe within Lion-land.
He came there panting, hot from the ring,
So brave a figure that one might know
Among all his tribe he must be king,—
If in some wild tract you met him so.
"Do you love me still," she asked, "as when
You swore it first?" "Have never a doubt!"
"But I have a fancy—men are men,
And one whim drives another out,"—
"What fancy? Is this all? Have done:
You tire me." "Look you, Marco! oh,
I should die if another woman won
Your love,—but would kill you first, you know!"
"Kill me? and how,—with a jealous tongue?"
"Thus!" quoth Florina, and slipped the bolt
Of the cage's door, and headlong flung
Sir Marco, ere he could breathe, the dolt!
Plump on the lion he bounced, and fell
Beyond, and Hebe leapt for him there,—
No need for their lady's voice to tell
The work in hand for that ready pair.
They say one would n't have cared to see
The group commingled, man and beast,
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