women said_:

"Why are you tearing
Away to his doom
The child of my caring,
The fruit of my womb.
Till nine months were o'er,
His burthen I bore,
Then his pretty lips pressed
The glad milk from my breast,
And my whole heart he filled,
And my whole life he thrilled.

"All my strength dies;
My tongue speechless lies;
Darkened are my eyes;
His breath was the breath of me;
His death is the death of me!"

_Then another woman said_:

"Tis my own son that from me you wring,
_I_ deceived not the King.
But slay me, even me,
And let my boy be.
A mother most hapless,
My bosom is sapless.
Mine eyes one tearful river,
My frame one fearful shiver,
My husband sonless ever,