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VII.

God.
Thy sister—

Har.
Aye, I know, she is his queen;
Albeit, did she speak her foemen fair,
I would destroy her comely seemlykeen,
And fold my bloody anlace in her hair.

God.
Thy fury cease—

Har.
No, bid the lethal mere,
Upraised by secret winds and cause unkenn'd,
Command it to be still; so 'twill appear,
Ere Harold hide his name, his country's friend.

97

The red-stained brigandyne, the aventayl,
The fiery anlace broad shall make my cause prevail.