Now doth Cain with fork of thorns confine
On either hemisphere, touching the wave
Beneath the towers of Seville. Yesternight
The moon was round.
Dantê, Inferno, xx (1300).
Her gite was gray and full of spottis black.
And on her brest a chorle painted ful even,
Bering a bush of thornis on his back,
Which for his theft might clime so ner the heven.
Chaucer.