XVII

'I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,'

      Quoth Porphyro: 'O may I ne'er find grace

      When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer,

      If one of her soft ringlets I displace,

      Or look with ruffian passion in her face:

      Good Angela, believe me by these tears;

      Or I will, even in a moment's space,

      Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears,

And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears.'