To me he lent this rope, to him a rustie knife.
XXX
With which sad instrument of hasty death,
That wofull lover, loathing lenger light,
A wide way made to let forth living breath.
But I more fearfull, or more luckie wight,
Dismayd with that deformed dismall sight,
Fled fast away, halfe dead with dying feare:[°]
Ne yet assur'd of life by you, Sir knight,