LXXXIX.

Rose the Sultana from a bed of splendour,

Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried[357]Aloud because his feelings were too tender

To brook a ruffled 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.

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