Rondeau

His poisoned shafts, that fresh he dips In juice of plants that no bee sips, He takes, and with his bow renown’d Goes out upon his hunting ground, Hanging his quiver at his hips.

He draws them one by one, and clips Their heads between his finger-tips, And looses with a twanging sound His poisoned shafts.

But if a maiden with her lips Suck from the wound the blood that drips, And drink the poison from the wound, The simple remedy is found That of their deadly terror strips His poisoned shafts.

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