Chapter 83 No.83

"Were the object less mean, would he stand

At the swing of my hand!

For obscurity helps him and blots

The hole where he squats."

So I set my five wits on the stretch15

To inveigle the wretch.

All in vain! Gold and jewels I threw;

Still he couched there perdue;

I tempted his blood and his flesh,

Hid in roses my mesh,20