Practice Typing

But not as yet the fatal news had spread To fair Andromache, of Hector dead; As yet no messenger had told his fate, Not een his stay without the Scan gate. Far in the close recesses of the dome, Pensive she plied the melancholy loom; A growing work employd her secret hours, Confusedly gay with intermingled flowers. Her fair haired handmaids heat the brazen urn, The bath preparing for her lords return In vain; alas.