170
Lest, smitten with a serpent winged and bright,
Forth darted from my bow-string golden-wrought,
Thou in sore pain bring up dark foam, and vomit
The clots of blood thou suck'dst from human veins.
This is no house where ye may meetly come,
But there where heads upon the scaffold lie,[[487]]
And eyes are gouged, and throats of men are cut,
[*]And mutilation mars the bloom of youth,
Where men are maimed and stoned to death, and groan