I think I need not fear him for't;
These rallying devils do not hurt.
With that he roused his drooping heart,
And hastily cry'd out, What art?—
A wretch, quoth he, whom want of grace
Has brought to this unhappy place.
I do believe thee, quoth the knight;
Thus far I'm sure thou'rt in the right,
And know what 'tis that troubles thee,
Better than thou hast guess'd of me.