Their voices 'gainst each other, which is natural,
The numbers are too great for them to flatte all.
Rose the sultana from a bed of splendour,
Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried
Aloud because his feelings were too tender
To brook a ruffle rose-leaf by his side,—
So beautiful that art could little mend her,
Though pale with conflicts between love and pride;—
So agitated was she with her error,
She did not even look into the mirror.
Also arose about the self-same time,
Perhaps a little later, her great lord,