Wearied and woe-begone, he fell to ground, And turned his eyes toward heaven; nor spake he aught.
Nor ate, nor slept, till in his daily round The golden sun had broken thrice, and sought His rest anew; nor ever ceased his wound To rankle, till it marred his sober thought.
At length, impelled by phrensy, the fourth day, He from his limbs tore plate and mail away.