A crooked blade, guilty of human gore—
The trophies it had lopp'd from many an elf
Were struck at his head-quarters by the score—
Not yet in peace belaid it on the shelf,
But jested with it, and his wit cut sore;
So that (as they of Public Houses speak)
He often did his dozen butts a week.
XII.
Therefore his slaves, with most obedient fears,
Came with the sack the lady to enclose;