Page:Early poems of William Morris.djvu/101

 Perchance an ill deed too, for half I count

This sparing traitors is an ill deed.

Lambert, die bravely, and we're almost friends.

, grovelling

God! this is a fiend and not a man;

Will some one save me from him? help, help, help!

I will not die.

A man who is a knight, and bandied words

So well just now with me, is lying down,

Gone mad for fear like this! So, so, you thought

You knew the worst, and might say what you pleased.

I should have guess'd this from a man like you.

Eh! righteous Job would give up skin for skin,

Yea, all a man can have for simple life,

And we talk fine, yea, even a hound like this,

Who needs must know that when he dies, deep hell

Will hold him fast for ever—so fine we talk,

"Would rather die"—all that. Now sir, get up!

And choose again: shall it be head sans ears,

Or trunk sans head?

What, life then? go and build the scaffold, John.

Lambert, I hope that never on this earth

We meet again; that you'll turn out a monk,

And mend the life I give you, so farewell,

I'm sorry you're a rascal. John, despatch.