‘But I cannot loup, I cannot come,
I cannot win to thee;
My head’s fast in the wire-window,
My feet burning from me.
XVIII
‘My eyes are seething in my head,
My flesh roasting also,
My bowels are boiling with my blood;
Is not that a woeful woe?
XIX
‘Take here the rings from my white fingers,
That are so long and small,
And give them to my lady fair,
Where she sits in her hall.
XX
‘So I cannot loup, I cannot come,
I cannot loup to thee;
My earthly part is all consumed,
My spirit but speaks to thee.’
XXI
Wringing her hands, tearing her hair,
His lady she was seen,
And thus address’d his servant Gordon,
Where he stood on the green.