Struck with these words, the tyrant’s guilty breast With fear and anger was by turns possess’d; Now, with remorse his conscience deeply stung, He drew the falchion that beside him hung, And first her tender arms behind her bound, Then dragg’d her by the hair along the ground. The princess willingly her throat reclined, And view’d the steel with a contented mind; But soon her tongue the girding pincers strain, With anguish, soon she feels the piercing pain: “O father, father!” she would fain have spoke, But the sharp torture her intention broke; In vain she tries, for now the blade has cut Her tongue sheer off, close to the trembling root; The mangled part still quiver’d on the ground, Murmuring with a faint, imperfect sound: And, as a serpent writhes his wounded train, Uneasy, panting, and possess’d with pain, The piece, while life remain’d, still trembled fast, And to its mistress pointed to the last.