XLVI.

The white-witch that tempted of yore

So utterly doth substance lack,

You may breathe her nearer and breathe her back.

Soft her eyes, her speech full clear:

‘ Hail, thou Sigismund my fere,

Bargain with me yea or nay.

NAY, I go to my true place,

And no more thou seest my face.

YEA, the good be all thine own,

For now will I advance thy day,

And yet will leave the night alone.