Chorus.
(Ant.)
If she would but come forth where we wait her,
If she would but give ear to the sound
Of our speech, that her spirit would learn
From its fierceness of anger to turn,
And her lust for revenge not burn!
O ne'er may my love prove traitor,
Never false to my friends be it found!
But go thou, and forth of the dwelling 180
Thy mistress hitherward lead.
Say to her that friends be we all.
O hasten, ere mischief befall
The lords of the palace-hall.
For her grief, like a tempest upswelling,
Resistless shall ruin-ward speed.
Nurse.
I will do it: but almost my spirit despaireth
To win her; yet labour of love shall it be.
But my queen on her thralls as a mad bull glareth,
Or a lioness couched mid her whelps, whoso dareth
With speech to draw near her, so tameless is she.
He should err not, who named the old singers in singing 190
Not cunning, but left-handed bards, for their lays
Did they frame for the mirth-tide, the festal in-bringing
Of the wine, and the feast, when the harp-strings are ringing
To sweeten with melody life's sweet days:
