ALMACHILDES.

King, nor her.

ALBOVINE.

Fall then to feasting. Bear the cup away.
Some savour of the dust of death comes from it.
Sweet, be not wroth nor sad.

ROSAMUND.

I am blithe and fain,
Sire; and I loved thee never more than now.

ALBOVINE.

Nor ever I thee. Now I find thee mine,
And now no daughter of mine enemy's.

ROSAMUND.

No.
Thou hast no enemy left on earth alive -
No soul unslain that hates thee.

ALBOVINE.

That were much.