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 Maidens, if ye will sing now, shift your song, Bow down, cry, wail for pity; is this a time For singing? nay, for strewing of dust and ash, Rent raiment, and for bruising of the breast.

What new thing wolf-like lurks behind thy words? What snake’s tongue in thy lips? what fire in the eyes?

Bring me before the queen and I will speak.

Lo, she comes forth as from thank-offering made.

A barren offering for a bitter gift.

What are these borne on branches, and the face Covered? no mean men living, but now slain Such honour have they, if any dwell with death.

Queen, thy twain brethren and thy mother’s sons.