See a rich chuff, whose wounds great wealth inferred,
For bloodshed knighted, before me preferred.10
Fool, can'st thou him in thy white arms embrace?
Fool, can'st thou lie in his enfolding space?
Know'st not this head[401] a helm was wont to bear?
This side that serves thee, a sharp sword did wear.
His left hand, whereon gold doth ill alight,
A target bore: blood-sprinkled was his right.
Can'st touch that hand wherewith some one lies dead?
Ah, whither is thy breast's soft nature fled?