Even stout Sansfoy (O who can then refrayn?)
Whose shield he beares renverst, the more to heape disdayn.
XLII
And to augment the glorie of his guile,
His dearest love, the faire Fidessa, loe
Is there possessed of the traytour vile,
Who reapes the harvest sowen by his foe,
Sowen in bloudy field, and bought with woe:
That brothers hand shall dearely well requight,