At’s snowy back the boy a quiver wore
Right fairly wrought and gilded all with gold.
A silver bow in his left hand he bore,
And in his right a ready shaft did hold.
Thus armed stood he and betwixt us tway
The labouring brook did break his toilsome way.
The wanton lad whose sport is others pain
Did charge his bended bow with deadly dart,
And drawing to the head with might and main,
With fell intent he aim’d to hit my heart.