|Set your heart at rest:
||The fairy land buys not the child of me.
|His mother was a votaress of my order:
||And, in the spiced Indian air, by night,
|Full often hath she gossip’d by my side,
||And sat with me on Neptune’s yellow sands,
|Marking the embarked traders on the flood,
||When we have laugh’d to see the sails conceive
|And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind;
||Which she, with pretty and with swimming gait
|Following,–her womb then rich with my young squire,–
||Would imitate, and sail upon the land,
|To fetch me trifles, and return again,
||As from a voyage, rich with merchandise.
|But she, being mortal, of that boy did die;
||And for her sake do I rear up her boy,
|And for her sake I will not part with him.