Had given her life and ta'en it from her, she died.
Might not this grief have soften'd Isador?
Might not she shudder at the blank abyss
New-yawn'd beneath her over-slipping feet?
Rather her sorrow in her so much wrought,
That more, for Berta's death, should Tristram die.
She took the goblet, red with liquid death,
And set it as before; but lest mischance
Should foil the deed, behind an arras hid.
"There let him drink, and trouble me no more!"
And one came, but not Tristram; 't was the King,
Who took the chalice, rais'd it to his lips,
And thus had died, had not a white hand flasht
Before him, swiftly stricken death's hand away, -
Had not a white face fallen before his feet.
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