But he as one that witte and reason lackte,
Sayde traytour vile thou art to me vntrue;
And therwithall his bloudy blade he drewe.
Not like a king but like a cut throte fell;
Not like a brother, like a butcher brute;
Though twere no worse then I deserued well,
He gaue no time to reason or dispute:
To late it was to make for life my suite,
“Take traytoure here (quoth he) thy whole deserte,”
And therwithall he thrust me to the harte.