For my lips bite not sharper than mine hands.
Nay, both bite soft, but no whit softly mine.
Keep thine hands clean; they have time enough to stain.
For thine shall rest and wax not red to-day.
Have all thy will of words; talk out thine heart.
Refrain your lips, O brethren, and my son,
Lest words turn snakes and bite you uttering them.
Except she give her blood before the gods,
What profit shall a maid be among men?
Let her come crowned and stretch her throat for a knife,
Bleat out her spirit and die, and so shall men
