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LXIX.

Hur.
I know thee, Magnus, well; a wight thou art,
That dost but slide along in sad distress,
Strong bull in body, lion's cub in heart,
I almost wish thy prowess were made less!
When Ælla (named dressed up in ugsomness
To thee and recreants) thundered on the plain,
How didst thou through the first of fliers press!
Swifter than feathered arrow didst thou reyne.
A running prize on saint's day to ordain,
Magnus, and none but he, the running prize will gain.