3360My pity saved, when as your fury had
The rough-pawed Sylvan mincèd with your skene.
Oh, with same courage let your mind be clad,
With your sharp scimitar my liver dreane.
Why should I be a liver, since he's dead
Who was my hope, my health, my heart, my head'.
'How am I chang'd!' quoth he, 'my heart does beat
The fainting summons of the Child of Sin.
My knees do quarrel, and a chilling sweat
Cold as the dew of winter oils my skin.