Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/50

 Nay, but this god hath cause enow to smite: If he will slay me, baring breast and throat, I lean toward the stroke with silent mouth And a great heart. Come, take thy sword and slay; Let me not starve between desire and death, But send me on my way with glad wet lips; For in the vein-drawn ashen-coloured palm Death's hollow hand holds water of sweet draught To dip and slake dried mouths at, as a deer Specked red from thorns laps deep and loses pain. Yea, if mine own blood ran upon my mouth, I would drink that. Nay, but be swift with me; Set thy sword here between the girdle and breast, For I shall grow a poison if I live. Are not my cheeks as grass, my body pale, And my breath like a dying poisoned man's? O whatsoever of godlike names thou be, By thy chief name I charge thee, thou strong god, And bid thee slay me. Strike, up to the gold, Up to the hand-grip of the hilt; strike here; For I am Cretan of my birth; strike now; For I am Theseus' wife; stab up to the rims, I am born daughter to Pasiphae. See thou spare not for greatness of my blood, Nor for the shining letters of my name: Make thy sword sure inside thine hand and smite,