They cry, “kill, kill.” The squatting toads
And gulping frogs do croak it forth,
And the lip-licking efts of the pool,
And worms, come out of the earth to cry it—
“Kill, kill; kill, kill.”—Whom should I kill?
The misty glamours of the moon
Amaze me; and you die not yet,
Who with that wounding should be dead.
There is some dire enchantment on me.
Why do you die not, being wounded—