<poem> His care was all, how he them all might kill; That none might 'scape, so partial unto none. Ill mind! so much to mind another's ill, As to become unmindful of his own. But pardon that unto the cruel skies, That from himself to them, withdrew his eyes.
So as he raged emongst that beastly rout; A cruel beast of most accursèd brood, Upon him turned—despair makes cowards stout And with fell tooth, accustomèd to blood, Launched his thigh with so mischievous might, That it both bone and muscle rivèd quite.
So deadly was the dint, and deep the wound, And so huge streams of blood thereout did flow; That he endurèd not the direful stound But on the cold dear earth, himself did throw. The whiles the captive herd his nets did rend, And having none to let; to wood did wend.
Ah, where were ye this while, his shepherd peers? To whom alive was nought so dear as he. And ye fair maids, the matches of his years! Which in his grace, did boast you most to be? And where were ye, wrhen he of you had need, To stop his wound that wondrously did bleed?
