".............................But she lies Not in the embrace of loyal death, who keeps His bride for ever, but in treacherous arms Of sleep, that sated, will restore to grief Her snatch'd a sweet space from his cruel clutch." Her head is thrown back, and her round chin slightly raised. Over the tossed pillow wander the tangled riches of her swart hair; nerveless on the counterpane lie the white, carven hands and blue-veined wrists, on which the faint fine lines make a tender network. Half-shadowed by her dressing-gown, half-emerging from it gleam bare feet, "That make the blown foam neither swift nor white." He leans over her, gazing with passionate admiration at the heavy shut lids and upward curling lashes--with passionate admiration mixed with sharp pain; for he can see, plainlier now in this long quiet look than in the hasty, stolen glances he has hitherto given her, the purple stains under closed eyes, the little depressions in the rounded cheek, the droop of the sweet sorrowful mouth. Iachimo's words recur to him--Iachimo's, as he gazed in his treachery upon the sleeping beauty of Imogen: "..........................Cytherea! How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! fresh lily! And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch! But kiss--one kiss! Bubies unparagon'd, How dearly they do't!--'Tis her breathing that Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o' the taper Bows towards her, and would underpeep her lids To see the enclosed lights now canopied Under those windows......................"