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"Not war, if possible, O king," I said,"lest from the abuse of war, The desecrated shrine, the trampled year, The smoldering homestead, and the household flower Torn from the lintel-all the common wrong- And smoke go up thro' which I loom to her Three times a monster: now she lightens scorn At him that mars her plan, but then would hate (And every voice she talk'd with ratify it, And every face she look'd on justify it) The general foe. More soluable is this knot, By gentleness than war. I want her love. What were I nigher this altho' we dash'd Your cities into shards and catapults, She would not love;- or brought her chain'd, a slave, The lifting of whose eyelash is my lord, Not ever would she love; but brooding turn The book of scorn, till all my fitting chance Were caught within the record of her wrongs, And crush'd to death: and rather, Sire, than this I would the old God of war himself were dead, Forgotten, rustling on his iron hills, Rotting on some wild shore with ribs of wreck, Or like an old-world mammoth bulk'd in ice, Not to be molten out."
Excerpt from, "The Princess: A Medley" by, Alfred Tennyson
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