THE WITCH'S CHAMPION. LOOK here! see how I spill this wine, Look how I slice this falcon's neck; Let knaves beware, the wolf's at bay; Stand from the door-here, Watkin, ho! Plant back to back, and chop a way. He says it makes me froth with rage— Her white hand has a stain. The sot! I know her pure as her babe's soul. Who says she's false, he lies; I say she's not. O bring my helmet, visor up— And throw the flesh to dogs. The sot! A witch, too! 'cause her golden bird With the oak shaft, and give me-Sot! She liked me not; "Old Steady Dick" From table, clashing in my steel; Girth me up tight look-wax the shaft Of the steel axe. No-blood shall glue This hand to hilt. What's that? Who laughed? And bid him burn the bond he signed. And he, the husband, simple fool, O God! now on my knees, but this- Once foot to foot, and eye to eye— In lowest hell, he'll roll and rot- Where's William, he who kissed her shoe, |