Yfette fro Crete, kene arwes long and broad;
No fetches do we ete, but speres shente,
That gadred ben fro blood ydrenched bente.
The silver targe, and perced habergeon,
Been that, whan sonne is set, we lig upon.
On bowes reste our fete whan that we slepe,
With katapultes crownde, so heie hem clepe.—W. W.
Alcæus. (Book x. § 35, p. 679.)
To be bow'd by grief is folly;