Where with his pen-knife he did pricke and paine
The lothsome toade, from whom the blood did floe,
By which the wicked monke did worke my woe:
For poison which the toade did vomit vp,
With wine he mixed in a fatall cup.
89.
With which to me he came, and thus he spake,
“My liege,” said he, “a cup of wine I bring,
Of which if that your grace a taste will take,
It will abate the edge of sorowe’s sting,