So night drew on with rain, nor yet they ceased
Within the hall to drink the gleaming wine,
And late they pour'd the last cup of the feast,
To Argus-bane, the Messenger divine;
And last, 'neath torches tall that smoke and shine,
The maidens strew'd the beds with purple o'er,
That Diocles and Paris might recline
All night, beneath the echoing corridor.
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