Whereat Geraint flash’d into sudden spleen:

“A thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk!

Tits, wrens, and all wing’d nothings peck him dead! 275

Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg

The murmur of the world! What is it to me?

O wretched set of sparrows, one and all,

Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks!

Speak, if you be not like the rest, hawk-mad, 280

Where can I get me harbourage for the night?

And arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy? Speak!”