Chorus.

  O gods, what word has flown out at thy mouth?

  Althaea.

  I did this and I say this and I die.

  Chorus.

  Death stands upon the doorway of thy lips,
  And in thy mouth has death set up his house. 
  Althaea.

  O death, a little, a little while, sweet death,
  Until I see the brand burnt down and die.

  Chorus.

  She reels as any reed under the wind,
  And cleaves unto the ground with staggering feet.

  Althaea.

  Girls, one thing will I say and hold my peace. 
  I that did this will weep not nor cry out,
  Cry ye and weep:  I will not call on gods,
  Call ye on them; I will not pity man,
  Shew ye your pity.  I know not if I live;
  Save that I feel the fire upon my face
  And on my cheek the burning of a brand. 
  Yea the smoke bites me, yea I drink the steam
  With nostril and with eyelid and with lip
  Insatiate and intolerant; and mine hands
  Burn, and fire feeds upon mine eyes; I reel
  As one made drunk with living, whence he draws
  Drunken delight; yet I, though mad for joy,
  Loathe my long living and am waxen red
  As with the shadow of shed blood; behold,
  I am kindled with the flames that fade in him,
  I am swollen with subsiding of his veins,
  I am flooded with his ebbing; my lit eyes
  Flame with the falling fire that leaves his lids
  Bloodless, my cheek is luminous with blood
  Because his face is ashen.  Yet, O child,
  Son, first-born, fairest—­O sweet mouth, sweet eyes,
  That drew my life out through my suckling breast,
  That shone and clove mine heart through—­O soft knees
  Clinging, O tender treadings of soft feet,
  Cheeks warm with little kissings—­O child, child,
  What have we made each other?  Lo, I felt
  Thy weight cleave to me, a burden of beauty, O son,
  Thy cradled brows and loveliest loving lips,
  The floral hair, the little lightening eyes,
  And all thy goodly glory; with mine hands
  Delicately I fed thee, with my tongue
  Tenderly spake, saying, Verily in God’s time,
  For all the little likeness of thy limbs,
  Son, I shall make thee a kingly man to fight,
  A lordly leader; and hear before I die,
  ‘She bore the goodliest sword of all the world.’ 
  Oh! oh!  For all my life turns round on me;
  I am severed from myself, my name is gone,
  My name that was a healing, it is changed,
  My name is a consuming.  From this time,
  Though mine eyes reach to the end of all these things,
  My lips shall not unfasten till I die.

    SEMICHORUS.

    She has filled with sighing the city,
      And the ways thereof with tears;
    She arose, she girdled her sides,
    She set her face as a bride’s;
    She wept, and she had no pity,
      Trembled, and felt no fears.