70 
THE WORLD’S TRAGEDY. 
 
MIRIAM 
 
Stay, will you go ?  What, are you men — or tame ? 
 
PUBLIUS 
 
Faugh, wench !  is there no shame ? 
 
He kicks her brutally.  The guard moves off. 
 
MIRIAM 
 
The dawn !  oh, curses on the dawn that breaks  
This night of joy.  God !  my whole being wakes  
Into a world of rapture.  I am I  
At last — the little fool that wondered why !  
I am abreast of God’s whole tide of thought.  
Like gold into fine linen, I am wrought  
Into the royal vesture of the globe.  
I am the Empress of the City of Sin,  
Wrapped in its purple robe  
Stained with mine own maid’s blood.  
Yea !  for all glorious within  
Am I, most like the daughter of a king,  
Voluptuously languishing  
Like a great queen afloat upon the flood  
In gilded barge