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So with outragious cry, A thousand villeins round about him swarmed Out of the rocks and caves adjoining nye; Vile caitive wretches, ragged, rude, deformed; All threatning death, all in straunge manner armed; Some with unweldy clubs, some with long speares. Some rusty knives, some staves in fier warmd.
'Your beauty was the first that won the place, And scal'd the walls of my undaunted heart, Which, captive now, pines in a caitive case, Unkindly met with rigour for desert; Yet not the less your servant shall abide, In spite of rude repulse or silent pride. WILLIAM FOWLER. The next morning, Margaret dragged herself up, thankful that the night was over, unrefreshed, yet rested.
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