Xvi

And high advauncing his blood-thirstie blade, Stroke one of those deformed heads so sore, That of his puissance proud ensample made; His monstrous scalpe downe to his teeth it tore, And that misformed shape mis-shaped more: A sea of blood gusht from the gaping wound, That her gay garments staynd with filthy gore, And overflowed all the field around; That over shoes in bloud he waded on the ground.