Enwrap you here and hide you thus;
And press my kerchief to your wound.
(O beautiful breast; O bitter wound;
O cruel, carvèd, bitter wound.)
Come, courage, come. Come lay your head
Here. Do not moan, for I will go
And fetch you succour from the town.
(She is not cold, but burns like fire—
For all her ebbing blood doth flow
In guilty oozing from her breast.