Meanwhile the king, with all his guards, lay bound In magic sleep, scarce that of death so sound; The daughters now are by the sorc’ress led Into his chamber, and surround his bed. “Your father’s health’s concern’d, and can ye stay? Unnatural nymphs, why this unkind delay? Unsheath your swords, dismiss his lifeless blood, And I’ll recruit it with a vital flood. Your father’s life and health are in your hand, And can ye thus like idle gazers stand? Unless you are of common sense bereft, If yet one spark of piety is left, Despatch a father’s cure, and disengage The monarch from his toilsome load of age: Come, drench your weapons in his putrid gore; ’Tis charity to wound, when wounding will restore.”

Thus urged, the poor deluded maids proceed, Betray’d by zeal to an inhuman deed, And, in compassion, make a father bleed. Yes, she who had the kindest, tend’rest heart, Is foremost to perform the bloody part.