Let the sad captive foremost, with locks spread
On her white neck, but for hurt cheeks,[166] be led.40
Meeter it were her lips were blue with kissing,
And on her neck a wanton's[167] mark not missing.
But, though I like a swelling flood was driven,
And as a prey unto blind anger given,
Was't not enough the fearful wench to chide?
Nor thunder, in rough threatenings, haughty pride?
Nor shamefully her coat pull o'er her crown,
Which to her waist her girdle still kept down?