I a rough soldier, like a thousand others

Upon our widespread plains, to have won this flower

Of womanhood—this jewel for the front

Of knightly pride to wear, and, wearing it,

Let all things else go by? To think that I,

Fool that I was, only a few hours since,

Bemoaned the lot which brought me here and bade me

Leave my own land, which now sinks fathoms deep

Beyond my memory's depths, and scarce would deign

To obey thee, best of fathers, when thy wisdom

Designed to make me blest! Was ever woman

So gracious and so comely? And I scorned her

For her Greek blood and love of liberty!

Fool! purblind fool! there is no other like her;

57

57

I glory being her slave.

Irene. I pray you, pardon me, my Lord Asander.

I seek the Lady Gycia; is she here?

Asan. No, madam; she has gone, and with her taken

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