A cloud of combrous gnattes do him molest,
All striving to infixe their feeble stings,
That from their noyance he no where can rest,
But with his clownish hands their tender wings
He brusheth oft, and oft doth mar their murmurings.
XXIV
Thus ill bestedd,[°] and fearefull more of shame,
Then of the certeine perill he stood in,
Halfe furious unto his foe he came,