Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven, It was my hint to speak, such was the process; And of the cannibals that each other eat, The anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear, But still the house affairs would draw her thence; And often did beguile her of her tears, When I did speak of some distressful stroke That my youth suffered. My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs: She swore,-in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange; 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful: She wished she had not heard it; yet she wished That heaven had made her such a man: she thanked me; And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, Here comes the lady; let her witness it. |