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A just decree of fortune to secure The hunters who had roused him from his lair. He made a desperate stand at bay—but, sweet, I must abridge my tale, since it doth blanch The roses on thy cheek. Thou can'st not bear To hear thy husband's prowess; I had hoped To win thy plaudits— Why, why wilt thou rush Upon such frightful danger? Is thy life So little valued, or my happiness So trifling in thine eyes. Oh, Tyranny, Thou hast usurped an angel's form; thy chains Are made of roses; who, who would be free When slavery is so sweet? I'll stay with thee The live-long day, exchange my dangerous sword For that slight spear that weaves thy magic webs.— Give me thy distaff, love.