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CXXXVII.

Æl.
'Tis now full morn. I thought, e'en by last night,
To have been here; my steed hath not my love.

85

This is my palace; let my hinds alight,
Whilst I go up, and wake my sleeping dove.
Stay here, my servants; I shall go above.
Now, Bertha, will thy look soon heal my sprite,
Thy smiles unto my wounds a balm will prove,
My leaden body will be set aright.
Egwina, haste, and ope the portal-door,
That I on Bertha's breast may think of war no more.