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.