PHOEBE (_aside_).
How dare she say it? I could hate her for it
But that she is distracted. [_A flourish of trumpets_.
CAMMA.
Is he crown'd?
PHOEBE.
Ay, there they crown him.
[_Crowd without shout_, 'Synorix! Synorix!'
[_A Priestess brings a box of spices to_ CAMMA,
_who throws them on the altar-flame_.
CAMMA.
Rouse the dead altar-flame, fling in the spices,
Nard, Cinnamon, amomum, benzoin.
Let all the air reel into a mist of odour,
As in the midmost heart of Paradise.
Lay down the Lydian carpets for the king.
The king should pace on purple to his bride,
And music there to greet my lord the king. [_Music_.
(_To Phoebe_). Dost thou remember when I wedded Sinnatus?
Ay, thou wast there--whether from maiden fears
Or reverential love for him I loved,
Or some strange second-sight, the marriage cup
Wherefrom we make libation to the Goddess
So shook within my hand, that the red wine
Ran down the marble and lookt like blood, like blood.
PHOEBE.
I do remember your first-marriage fears.
CAMMA.
I have no fears at this my second marriage.
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