Sing me at once the end or give the lute.
Why stand’st thou trembling? Give the lute to me.
Fill up the goblets; I will sing the end
If thou dost fear to sing it.
“I know ye. Every song the Wajdelote sings
Portendeth woe, as howls of dogs at night.
Murders and burnings ye delight to sing,
Ye leave to us—glory and sorrowing.
Yet in the cradle doth your traitorous song
Circle the infant’s breast in reptile form,