But sing thou shalt; for if thou play’st the mute,
I’ll spit thee, bird, and pick thy bones to boot.’
‘Ah, woe is me!’ the little thrall replied.
‘Who thinks of song, in prison doomed to bide?
And, were I cook’d, my bulk might scarce afford
One scanty mouthful to my hungry lord.’
What may I more relate?—the captive wight
Assay’d to melt the villain all he might;
And fairly promis’d, were he once set free,
In gratitude to teach him secrets three;