_[They go out, leaving the Regent alone._]

_Regent (she loosens the clasp of her robe)._ Some thoughts
--some thoughts--
Fall from me, envious robe!
Rest there, my crown--thou more than leaden ache!
Ah!--
God! What a mountain drops! I float--I am lifted
Like thistledown on nothing. Back, my crown--
Weight me to earth! Nay, nay, thy rim shall bite
No more upon this forehead ... Where's my glass?
O mirror, mirror, hath it bit so deep?
My love is coming, hark! O, say not grey,
Sweet mirror! Tell, what time to cure it now?
And he so near, so near!
How shall I meet him?
Why how but as the river leaps to sea,
Steel to its magnet, child to mother's arms?

[_She catches up flowers from the baskets left by the
courtiers, and decks herself mildly._

Flowers for my hair, flowers at the breast! Sweet flowers,
He'll crush you 'gainst his corslet. He has arms
Like bands of iron for clasping, has my love.
He'll hurt, he'll hurt ... But oh, sweet flowers, to lie
And feel you helpless while he grips and bruises
Your weak protesting breasts! You'll die in bliss,
Panting your fragrance out.--
Wh'st! Hush, poor fool!