He pluckt a bough;[°] out of whose rift there came
Small drops of gory bloud, that trickled down the same.
XXXI
Therewith a piteous yelling voyce was heard,
Crying, O spare with guilty hands[°] to teare
My tender sides in this rough rynd embard,
But fly, ah fly far hence away, for feare
Least to you hap, that happened to me heare,
And to this wretched Lady, my deare love,