So spritely, that I wisht they had beene spirits,
That the ne're shutting wounds they needs must open
Might, as they open'd, shut, and never kill.80
But D'Ambois sword (that lightned as it flew)
Shot like a pointed comet at the face
Of manly Barrisor, and there it stucke:
Thrice pluckt he at it, and thrice drew on thrusts
From him that of himselfe was free as fire,85
Who thrust still as he pluckt; yet (past beliefe!)
He with his subtile eye, hand, body, scap't.