1ST CITIZEN. Well, of her he said How she made letters for Chaldean folk And men that came forth of the wilderness And all her sister's chosen men; yea, she Kept not her lip from any sin of hers But multiplied in whoredoms toward all these That hate God mightily; for these, he saith, These are the fair French people, and these her kin Sought out of England with her love-letters To bring them to her kiss of love; and thus With a prayer made that God would break such love Ended some while; then crying out for strong wrath Spake with a great voice after: This is she, Yea the lewd woman, yea the same woman That gat bruised breasts in Egypt, when strange men Swart from great suns, foot-burnt with angry soils And strewn with sand of gaunt Chaldean miles, Poured all their love upon her: she shall drink The Lord's cup of derision that is filled With drunkenness and sorrow, great of sides And deep to drink in till the dreg drips out: Yea, and herself with the twain shards thereof Pluck off her breasts; so said he. 4TH CITIZEN. See that stir-- Are not they come? 3D CITIZEN. There wants an hour of them. Draw near and let us hearken; he will speak Surely some word of this. 2D CITIZEN. What saith he now? THE PREACHER. The mercy of a harlot is a sword; And her mouth sharper than a flame of fire. SCENE II.--In Prison. CHASTELARD. So here my time shuts up; and the last light Has made the last shade in the world for me. The sunbeam that was narrow like a leaf Has turned a hand, and the hand stretched to an arm, And the arm has reached the dust on the floor, and made A maze of motes with paddling fingers. Well, I knew now that a man so sure to die Could care so little; a bride-night's lustiness Leaps in my veins as light fire under a wind: As if I felt a kindling beyond death Of some new joys far outside of me yet; Sweet sound, sweet smell and touch of things far out Sure to come soon. I wonder will death be Even all it seems now? or the talk of hell And wretched changes of the worn-out soul Nailed to decaying flesh, shall that be true? Or is this like the forethought of deep sleep Felt by a tired man? Sleep were good enough-- Shall sleep be all? But I shall not forget For any sleep this love bound upon me-- For any sleep or quiet ways of death. Ah, in my weary dusty space of sight Her face will float with heavy scents of hair And fire of subtle amorous eyes, and lips More hot than wine, full of sweet wicked words Babbled against mine own lips, and long hands Spread out, and pale bright throat and pale bright breasts, Fit to make all men mad. I do believe This fire shall never quite burn out to the ash And leave no heat and flame upon my dust For witness where a man's heart was burnt up. For all Christ's work this Venus is not quelled, But reddens at the mouth with blood of men,