Where the lake and the boglands are most rotten and stinking,Deepest and lividest lie, the swallow of hollow voracious.Witless surely the wight whose sense is less than of boy-babeTwo-year-old and a-sleep on trembling forearm of father.He though, wedded to girl in greenest bloom of her youth-tide,(Bride-wife daintier bred than ever was delicate kidlet,Worthier diligent watch than grape-bunch blackest and ripest)Suffers her sport as she please nor rates her even at hair's worth,Nowise 'stirring himself, but lying log-like as alderFelled and o'er floating the fosse of safe Ligurian woodsman,Feeling withal, as though such spouse he never had own'd;