Xxxix

Then cride she out, Fye, fye, deformed wight, Whose borrowed beautie now appeareth plaine To have before bewitched all mens sight; O leave her soone, or let her soone be slaine. Her loathly visage viewing with disdaine, Eftsoones I thought her such, as she me told, And would have kild her; but with faigned paine The false witch did my wrathfull hand with-hold; So left her, where she now is turnd to treen mould.°