The Complete Works of John Keats: Poems, Plays & Personal Letters. John Keats

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style="font-size:15px;">       Indeed full time we slept;

       Say you so, Prince?

      Ludolph.

       I say I quarreled with you ; We did not tilt each other, that’s a blessing,

       Good gods! no innocent blood upon my head!

      Sigifred.

       Retire, Gersa!

      Ludolph.

       There should be three more here:

       For two of them, they stay away perhaps,

       Being gloomy-minded, haters of fair revels,

       They know their own thoughts best.

       As for the third,

       Deep blue eyes semi-shaded in white lids,

       Finished with lashes fine for more soft shade,

       Completed by her twin-arch’d ebon brows

       White temples of exactest elegance,

       Of even mould felicitous and smooth

       Cheeks fashioned tenderly on either side,

       So perfect, so divine that our poor eyes

       Are dazzled with the sweet proportioning,

       And wonder that ’tis so, the magic chance!

       Her nostrils, small, fragrant, faery-delicate;

       Her lips -I swear no human bones e’er wore

       So taking a disguise you shall behold her!

       We’ll have her presently; aye, you shall see her,

       And wonder at her, friends, she is so fair

       She is the world’s chief Jewel, and by heaven

       She’s mine by right of marriage she is mine!

       Patience, good people, in fit time I send

       A Summoner she will obey my call,

       Being a wife most mild and dutiful.

       First I would hear what music is prepared

       To herald and receive her let me hear!

      Sigifred.

       Bid the musicians soothe him tenderly.

       [A soft strain of Music.

      Ludolph.

       Ye have none better no I am content;

       ’Tis a rich sobbing melody, with reliefs

       Full and majestic; it is well enough,

       And will be sweeter, when ye see her pace

       Sweeping into this presence, glisten’d o’er

       With emptied caskets, and her train upheld

       By ladies, habited in robes of lawn,

       Sprinkled with golden crescents; (others bright

       In silks, with spangles shower’d,) and bow’d to

       By Duchesses and pearled Margravines

       Sad, that the fairest creature of the earth

       I pray you mind me not ’tis sad, I say,

       That the extremest beauty of the world

       Should so entrench herself away from me,

       Behind a barrier of engender ‘d guilt!

       Second Lady. Ah! what a moan!

       First Knight. Most piteous indeed!

      Ludolph.

       She shall be brought before this company,

       And then then

       First Lady. He muses.

      Gersa.

       O, Fortune, where will this end?

      Sigifred.

       I guess his purpose! Indeed he must not have

       That pestilence brought in, that cannot be,

       There we must stop him.

      Gersa.

       I am lost! Hush, hushl

       He is about to rave again.

      Ludolph.

       A barrier of guilt! I was the fool.

       She was the cheater! Who’s the cheater now,

       And who the fool? The entrapp’d, the caged fool,

       The bird-limy raven? She shall croak to death

       Secure! Methinks I have her in my fist,

       To crush her with my heel! Wait, wait! I marvel

       My father keeps away: good friend, ah! Sigifred!

       Do bring him to me and Erminia

       I fain would see before I sleep and Ethelbert,

       That he may bless me, as I know he will

       Though I have curs’d him.

      Sigifred.

       Rather suffer me

       To lead you to them

       Ludolph. No, excuse me, no

       The day is not quite done go bring them hither.

       [Exit SIGIFRED.

       Certes, a father’s smile should, like sunlight,,

       Slant on my sheafed harvest of ripe bliss

       Besides, I thirst to pledge my lovely Bride

       In a deep goblet: let me see what wine?

       The strong Iberian juice, or mellow Greek?

       Or pale Calabrian? Or the Tuscan grape?

       Or of old Ætna’s pulpy wine presses,

       Black stain’d with the fat vintage, as it were

       The purple slaughter-house, where Bacchus’ self

       Prick’d his own swollen veins? Where is my Page?

      Page.

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