Of all he cuts, and thrusts, and maims, and bleeds, There is not one who looks him in the face.
Throughout that street, which in a straight line leads Up to St. Michael's bridge, so thronged a space, Rodomont, terrible and fearful, speeds, Whirling his bloody brand, nor grants he grace, In his career, to servant or to lord;
And saint and sinner feel alike the sword.